Yesterday
by FlowerChild17
Summary: This is the story of George Harrison and Angie's childhood and how they fell in love. Beatles fanfic, not ATU. Prequel to my story Something, but you don't have to have read that to read this.
1. Chapter 1

**Sorry ... I deleted the story ... AGAIN. WON'T HAPPEN AGAIN I SWEAR. :P But please do re-read it because I made some big mess-ups in the chronology before. **

**Hello, readers! :D This story is a prequel to my first Beatles fanfiction, Something, but you don't have to have read that to read this. :] **

**I know I deleted this story earlier, but here it is again :D I've made a few changes. It was named Gotten before, but now I've decided to name it Yesterday, since it's the prequel to Something. :) **

**Disclaimer: I do not own the Beatles or anything else you might recognize. **

* * *

**Yesterday**

**Chapter One: Two of Us**

Liverpool, 1947

The sunny April afternoon found two young children sitting on the swings in the backyard of a house in Liverpool. 'Let's see who can swing higher!' shouted the little boy, pumping his short legs back and forth. The little girl let out a shout of laughter as she swung higher and higher - higher than Paul. 'I win!' she yelled happily, swinging back down to earth and dragging her heels across the grass to make herself stop.

'Paul! Angie!' The two children picked themselves up from the ground and ran to answer their summons. 'Angie, say goodbye to Paul,' Angie's mother told the little girl. 'You'll miss your best friend, won't you?' '

Angie nodded solemnly and said, 'Goodbye, Paul.'

'But, who will I play on the swings with now?' asked Paul tearfully. 'Peter's too little.'

'It's alright Paulie, we'll come back soon,' Angie's mother soothed the little boy. The two children hugged each other clumsily and then let their mothers separate them.

They were five years old then, and did not think of each other again till a white van pulled up on their street eight years later.

. . .

* * *

It was a regular day and Paul was walking home from school with a friend of his, George. They lived by and walked home together everyday. As they walked past the rows of identical houses, he saw a big white van pulled up in front of one. That was the house of old Mrs. Vanderbilt, who had recently moved to the countryside and left it empty. Before it belonged to Mrs. Vanderbilt, it had belonged to another family Paul had known very well.

A girl opened the back door of the van and lifted out a heavy-looking box with strong arms. Paul stopped walking and took a better look at her. She had caramel-coloured skin and dark hair. As he stood there, trying to place the memory in his head, she raised an eyebrow, waiting for him to move out of the way, carrying the heavy weight of the box as she was. 'Paul, move,' hissed George, tugging his friend's arm. Paul quickly moved, but as she disappeared into the house carrying the box, he remembered who she was. Evidently she did too, because when she came out again she said, tentatively, 'Paul?'

'Angie!' he exclaimed. 'It _is _you. Are ya shifting back?'

She gestured to the white van. 'I am,' she said, grinning. 'How are ya?'

'Good,' he answered, helping her and her brother unload the things from the van. 'You?'

'Good,' she said. 'Didn't we used ta play on the swings in your backyard?'

'We did,' said Paul, grinning.

It's weird how some friendships seem to click together as though there was never a gap in them: certainly not an eight-year gap in which both grew from toddlers to teenagers. Paul and Angie's was one of those. They hadn't known, when they were four years old, or even when they were thirteen, that they would remain best friends for life.

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**Told ya I wouldn't take long to have it back up again :) -Jen. **


	2. Chapter 2

**Thank you so much for the reviews! :) **

**Diclaimer: I do not own the Beatles or anything else you might recognize. **

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**Yesterday**

**Chapter Two: Come Together**

It's a pleasantly summery day, and Paul and I are sitting in his backyard. It's been two years since I moved from India to here. We don't go to the same school - the boys' school is separate from the girls' school, but since we live only a street away from each other, Paul and I hang out all the time. Right now, he is playing his acoustic guitar. Since his father got it for his birthday two years ago, he's developed a passion for playing it and I notice that since the first time I listened to him playing shaky chords with fingertips raw from the hard guitar strings, he's become quite good. Now he plays it easily, calloused fingers picking the strings with skill.

I'm fiddling with an old soapbox camera that belonged to my sister Shohini, or Sho, who's gone to New York to become an architect. Someday I'll go there too, but not to be an architect - to be a photographer. Since I discovered her old camera last year, it's become my obsession. It's not a very good camera - she never cared much for it and left it to collect dust in the back of her cupboard - but it's good enough for me. I've already begun to save up for a better one. They're extremely expensive, good cameras, and the one I have my eye on isn't just a regular soapbox camera, it's a proper professional camera that'll enable me to express so much more in my photographs.

Paul looks at his watch. It's a handsome thing, a gift from his father I think. 'I hear there's a new skiffle group playing at Blackpool,' he says. 'Wanta go see them? A friend o' mine said they'd be playing around six.'

'Sure,' I say, I like this rock music that's become the new trend for our generation. Paul and I spend most of our time listening to Elvis and Buddy Holly records and I've never seen it performed live before. 'They're called the Quarrymen,' he says. 'Think I could join a skiffle group if I got real good at playing the guitar?'

'Yer _already _good at playing the guitar,' I tell him. 'Just listen to yerself! Two years ago you were struggling ta play an E major chord. Now yer more than good enough to join a skiffle group!'

He grins. 'Well, if ya say so.'

'I'll just run down and ask me mum,' I say.

'I'll come and pick you up from there in a minute,' he replies.

* * *

'Mum?' I begin.

I'm always cautious about asking her to let me go places. I can understand why she was unwilling to give me my independence back in India - there, there were stories of girls being kidnapped and raped daily. There were men everywhere and most of them didn't bother to hide their stares. But here, I can't imagine what will go wrong. She doesn't realise that I'm fifteen years old, I can't be sheltered forever. This is why I want so badly to follow my sister Sho's footsteps and go to New York as soon as I get out of school.

But for now, I'll have to stick with getting my parents' permission to go out.

She's washing up some lunch dishes. 'Yes?' she says, up to her elbows in bubbles.

'I was wondering if you would let me go watch a band playing in Blackpool ...'

'Alone?' she says sharply.

'No, with Paul.' This is a plus point for me - Mum trusts Paul and knows he'll take care of me. Also, I don't have to worry that she won't let me go just because it's rock and roll music - she's open-minded to these things, even takes interest in them.

'Where is it?' she says tiredly.

'Blackpool.' Cross my fingers, hoping she'll say yes.

'I don't want you going if there will be drunk people around,' she says.

'There won't be,' I answer. _I hope there won't be_.

'Well alright then, don't be back later than eight.'

I breathe a sigh of relief and give her a hug from the back. 'Thanks, mum!' I run outside and Paul's waiting for me. 'Did she let you?' he asks anxiously. I nod, grinning.

* * *

The band is playing a song called _Hallelujah, I Love Her So _when we arrive.

I think they sound pretty good. The boy in the front looks a couple of years older than Paul. His hair is combed back, Elvis style, and he's got a bottle by his feet. His voice is strong and he's got a lot of stage presence. We watch the group play two songs more, and then they go off stage, the audience cheering them.

Paul looks thoughtful. I can tell he's visualizing himself on a stage performing like that. He looks in the direction of the boy who was singing - he must be the leader of the band, I think. 'I'll be right back,' he says. I watch Paul go up to the older boy, who's now swigging from his bottle, and tap his shoulder. They converse for a few minutes. Paul takes the other boy's guitar without asking and begins to play something. I wince - the other boy looks like the type who'd have a huge temper - but he looks impressed, nodding his head. Then Paul returns, beaming. 'He just asked me to join his band!' he says happily.

'Paulie that's great!' I say, grinning.

'There's band practice tomorrow, so I hafta go to over at five,' says Paul. He shows me an address scribbled on his fair palm.

I grin at him. 'Next time I'll be seeing you up on that stage too,' I say.

Paul grins back. 'First show's in two weeks at a place called the Cavern Club.'

* * *

**I was watching Imagine (John Lennon) recently, and in it he mentions that that was how he met Paul - after one of their gigs. He asked him to join the band immediately. So that was how one of the greatest songwriting-duo ever was formed :D I shall be introducing Georgie in the next chapter. Review? :) -Jen. **


	3. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer: I do not own the Beatles or anything else you might recognize.**

* * *

**Yesterday**

**Chapter Two: The Boy Behind the Guitar**

It was a pleasant summery day and Paul and I were sitting in his backyard. I was trying to draw a plant and he was playing one of the Buddy Holly songs he'd just figured out on his acoustic. He was getting pretty good; he'd just joined a skiffle group, he said, started by some guy named John Lennon who was in art school.

A boy carrying a guitar case came around the side of the house to the backyard. 'Hey, Paul,' he called, and then noticed me and stopped halfway towards them, shyly. 'Hey, George.' Paul called to his friend. 'George, this is Angie. She lives next door. Angie, this is George. He's in our band, the Quarrymen, I told you about, remember?'

'I remember,' I answered. Normally I was super shy around new people, but I'd resolved to be less so, so I smiled and said, 'Nice to meet you, George.'

He smiled back and said, 'Nice to meet you too.' He said down next to Paul and took out his guitar, and they started playing. They played mostly Elvis and Buddy Holly and Chuck Berry; they'd written a couple of their own songs too, they said, but they needed John for those. They sounded pretty good to me. I found myself looking at George; he was tall and a little skinny. He had longish hair of a beautiful dark shade, high cheekbones and a hollow face, very pale skin and dark eyes. _He's cute. _His fingers were calloused from playing the guitar; he was talented at playing it, I thought. I traced the shape of his guitar on my paper idly. I didn't notice him coming behind me to look at the drawing I was making. 'Angie, that's amazing,' he said, his quiet voice full of awe. 'Yer a really good artist, ya know?'

I felt my cheeks heat and I was glad that blushes didn't show easily on my skin. 'Thanks,' I said, glad that he hadn't seen the rest of the drawing that I had been planning to make: of the boy behind the guitar.


	4. Chapter 4

**Writing about Linda's death in my new story, Getting Better, made me feel like writing this- **

**Disclaimer: I do not own the Beatles or anything else you might recognize. **

* * *

**Yesterday**

**Chapter Four: Let It Be**

Angie's POV

It's late evening, the sky is turning dusky and I'm walking home from my friend Celia's house. There are paint stains on my shirt - I'm glad it's an old one - and there's paint caked under my nails, and I'm sure there's some spattered on my face too, because we were painting her father's garage. There's no better free form of entertainment than painting a wall.

As I walk home, my school bag dangling from my shoulders, the earlier rain clouds split up across the darkening sky, I get this weird feeling: a kind of dread. The irrational kind that makes you scared when it's pitch black in your room at night and you can't stop looking at the lump of clothes on your chair because it looks like a person sitting there. I wonder what it is. I turn over the various possibilities in my head: I'm not a big one for religion or miracles, but I'm not rational-minded enough to ignore this small niggling lump of dread that's slowly growing inside me as I walk, because surely something's caused it, something's warning me.

I pull my hair out of its bun, from which it was slowly escaping anyway - and play with a strand of it, because that always comforts me. When I reach home, I throw my bag on the sofa and go into the kitchen for a glass of water. That's when I see my mother sitting on the couch. Strange, at this time she should be making dinner. She's just sitting there. 'What's wrong?' I cry, running to her. 'What's wrong?'

'It's Paul's mother,' she says, her eyes are rimmed with red and tears, 'She's dead.'

A kind of a blank shock overtakes my mind and only one thought survives. _Paul. _'I have to go,' I say. I leave the glass of water, still full, on the coffee table and run to his house. I don't go in through the backyard as I normally do - instead I go up the front steps and I don't need to ring the doorbell because the door's hanging open an inch. I let myself quietly in. The living room is full of people - relatives, I presume. I don't see Paul there, so I run up to his room on the first floor. The door to Paul's room is shut, but the door to Mike's is open. I see Mike sitting on the bed, crying, and Paul has his arm around him, comforting him. I can see that he's trying to be strong for his younger brother, but his face betrays the sorrow he's feeling. As I watch, an older woman enters the room from in front of me and pats Paul's shoulder. She says something to him and Paul nods and leaves while she comforts the younger McCartney brother. Paul doesn't see me on the staircase; he goes into his room. When I enter, he's sitting on his bed, shoulders hunched and shaking, face in his hands. 'Paul,' I say. He looks up and his face is tear-stained. I put my arms around him and hold him and we stay like that for a long time, sitting on the floor, him sobbing and sobbing with his head on my lap. I don't say anything to comfort him yet because it won't make a difference. Sometimes, you just need to cry, to get it all out, before you can look up again. I don't cry though - right now, I have to be here for him.

After a little while, Paul stops sobbing and begins talking. 'She went into surgery today,' he said in a croaky, hiccuping voice. 'My mother, ya know. The doctors didn't think it was critical. But she didn't make it,' he said, sobbing, as if I didn't already know. 'She had cancer. Breast cancer. It spread before they could stop it.' Why is he telling me this, I wonder? I already know it. He's babbling nonsensically, as though delirious from a fever. I can't even understand what he's saying. 'She's gone,' he sobs brokenly. 'Shh, Paulie, shh,' I murmur, he lays his head on my lap and I take out the cloth that I had the foresight to pick up from the house before coming here, and wipe the tears from his forehead and cheeks and chin. He shuts his eyes, long eyelashes plastered together with tears, and sobs again, 'She's gone.'

I stay there a long time. We talk for a long time, Paul and I, mostly he's talking about her. At around eleven or twelve, one of his aunts comes upstairs with a plateful of food for him. When he's done eating, I can see that he's exhausted and tired. Tomorrow he'll have a lot to do. I help him get into bed and pull the covers up over him. He says, 'Thank you,' and in seconds he's out like a light. I kiss his damp cheek and go home.

Death happens. Still we get so worked up about it. As I walk home, I let myself cry the tears I held back earlier. Mary McCartney was one of the sweetest women I knew. I cry not just for her but for Paul and his brother and father, for their lives are permanently changed, their happiness permanently marred.

Still, death happens and life goes on. That's how I know that however badly Paul is hurt, he'll be able to go on. And I'll be there to help him.


	5. Chapter 5

**Disclaimer: I do not own the Beatles or anything else you might recognize. **

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**Yesterday**

**Chapter 5: I'm Gonna Be A Big Star**

The wind blows the window of the classroom open an inch and fans a strand my hair away from me. I doodle idly in the corner of my notebook: a guitar. George's guitar to be specific.

At the front of the class, the teacher drones on about the functions of the epithelial plant tissue, words that fall upon the blank ears and distant minds of thirty zoned-out girls, all waiting desperately for the bell to declare our freedom.

The bell rings and before it stops ringing, the classroom is empty.

I gather my books and shove them into the multi-coloured sling bag that my sister Shohini, or Sho, got for me from New York, where she works. She visits sometimes, but not too often. Someday I'll go there too.

I loosen my hair from its ponytail and run a hand through it. Grey clouds have gathered in the sky, hiding its earlier blue - beside me my friend Roxanne is complaining that it's going to rain _yet _again, but personally I'm glad: I miss the Indian monsoon so much, the time when rain would pour in an endless torrent from the raging black seas of the sky that rumbled as though cities were being destroyed in them. I wave goodbye to her and walk home; it's a twenty-minute walk but a pleasant one: the cool wind that promises rain pushes my hair back as I walk past row upon row of orderly, identical Liverpudlian houses.

Once I reach home, I find that my mother is asleep and my father is not yet home from work. My older brother Jude is out with his friends. I go to my room, throw my bag on my chair and I've barely lain down on my bed for a second when a shout coming from near the window makes me spring up. It's Paul, hanging out of his window, which is right in front of mine. 'Angie!' he calls. 'What?' I yell back, lifting up my window and sticking my head out.

'C'mere! Georgie's here too, we want ya to hear a song we jus' figured out!'

'Alright,' I yell back, ducking back down under the window. I pull the curtain shut and glance into my reflection for a second: I tug a knot of my long hair free and then grab my camera. It's new: I saved up for over a year to buy it, and even then my parents had to put in a little because I couldn't afford it by myself. It's an SLR, perfect for messing around with photography like I do - it lets me go so much further in the field, past simple point-and-shoot photographs with my sister's old soapbox camera. I find guitars extremely photogenic and Paul and George will be good subjects for my photographs. I shout to my mother that I'm going to Paul's - not that I need to, because Paul and I are best friends now and I'm at his house all the time anyway - and then run across my backyard, under the fence and to his. He and George are up in his room. Since I first met George, it's been a couple of months - he and Paul and I hang out pretty often. If I'm not already at Paul's house when he comes over, they shout across the windows to call me there.

I know George a bit better now - he's more talkative now. He's sweet and nice, even though he acts like a Teddy boy. When I reach Paul's - with a handful of cookies that I made yesterday for the boys - he's bent over his guitar, picking out a tune, long hair falling into his eyes. 'Hey!' says Paul happily, his eyes pop out when he sees the cookies in my hands and he leaves his guitar on the bed. 'Yer the best Ange!' he yells, throwing his arms around me and stuffing a cookie into his mouth, 'Mmmm.' George sees me and flashes his crooked grin, which I return and hand him a cookie. He inspects it carefully. 'Did you make it?' 'Yes,' I answer. He bites it and his eyes widen. 'Whoa, this is gear!' I grin at him. 'Thank you,' I say.

'Listen to this!' says Paul, grinning. He nods to George and they play a song that I recognize as Be-Bop-A-Lula. I smile as Paul sings in a deep voice and George concentrates on his strings. They're getting good. I take some pictures of them - they're very photogenic while they play, I think to myself. They play a couple more songs and then Paul exclaims, 'Christ, it's almost four thirty! We betta get going, or John will get mad.' He picks up his guitar and puts it in a case. 'You'll come too, won't you Angie?'

'For what?' I say, puzzled.

'We're going ter John's ter practice,' pipes George. 'You'll come, won't you?' Well I can't say no to George can I? He's too sweet to say no to. 'I'll just ask me mum,' I say. _Liverpool accent rubbing onto me_. By the time I've asked my mother and run back outside the house, George and Paul are waiting with their guitars. Paul starts talking about the band and the songs they are doing, with some inputs from George. The unknown John's house isn't far, and we reach fairly quickly, even though the boys are lugging guitar cases.  
A boy a couple of years older than Paul opens the door; _he must be John_. He has Elvis-styled hair and sly brown eyes. 'Bout time ya got here, Macca!' He lets us through and then looks. 'Well, who's the bird?'  
I bite back the urge to roll my eyes at this _extremely _sexist comment. 'I'm Angie,' I say. 'Paul asked me to come see you guys practice.'  
'I'm John,' he says, shaking my hand. 'Didn't tell me ya had a bird, Macca!'  
'I'm not his girlfriend,' I say, indignant, while Paul reddens and stammers. 'Just friend.'  
'Hmm ... Alright then.' John grins cheekily and leads us to the living room. 'Pete can't make it today,' he irritably informs Paul, who is taking out his guitar. 'He said he'd come on Thursday, though.'  
I sit in the corner on a chair while they start practicing. I don't want to disturb them or make them feel like my presence is distracting, so I just sit and watch them practice - and they're _good_. They mostly play covers by Elvis and Buddy Holly and Chuck Berry, but I like the songs they've written themselves best. John sings mostly - he's got a strong voice; Paul sings too - I'm used to his voice because I've heard him before, but it always strikes me how good his voice is, too. George sings just one song, but I think he has the sweetest voice in the world.

I think that John must be the leader of the band: he's the oldest and most authoritative, and the two younger boys seem to look up to him a good deal. He's a bit rash sometimes - teases George for being younger - but nice overall.

'Well, what did ya think?' Paul asks half an hour later as we walk home. 'Our drummer Pete couldn't come today and we need someone to play bass for us - John said he thinks he knows someone who can.'

'I think you're great,' I say truthfully. 'Really, really good.'

'Really?' asks George uncertainly. He's the youngest and newest in the band, constantly striving for Paul and John's acceptance, unaware of the talent he possesses.

'Yes,' I say firmly. 'Someday, you're going to be famous.'

And I know it: someday, these lads will change the world.

* * *

**Isn't it true though, that the Beatles changed the world? I think they did. They had such a huge impact on the sixties generations and the things people did then. They had a HUGE impact on the development of music as well. George practically introduced Indian fusion music! Which by the way I love, check out this band called Advaita - they're awesome. XD Anyway review please :) -Jen. **


	6. Chapter 6

**Thank you for the reviews! :) This isn't a very eventful chapter, just a bit of George-Angie fluff. Also, this chapter and the last chapter both take place a couple of months after Paul's mother's death. **

**Disclaimer: I do not own the Beatles or anything else you might recognize. **

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**Yesterday**

**Chapter Six: This Boy**

I bend over my desk, angling the lamp so that the light falls straight on my paper. I dust off my charcoal stick and then continue to make my drawing: it's of a glass bottle, all black and white and smoky, with rainbows leaking out of its mouth. A little creaking sound behind me tells me that someone is trying to sneak up on me. 'Yes, Paul?' I say sweetly, leaning my head back to catch him with one foot poised above the ground as he tries to tiptoe up behind me.

'Aww, I almost got there!' complains Paul. 'Whatcha drawing?' He bounds forward to look at my sketchbook. I notice George hanging back in the doorway of bedroom, looking a little unsure. I wave hello to him. He smiles and says, 'Hello.' He comes up on the other side of me and looks at the drawing too. 'Hey, that's really good,' he says. 'Yer a real talented artist, ya know?'

'Thanks,' I mumble, feeling self-conscious, but I can't stop my smile. Paul ruffles my hair. 'Ya got any of those cookies left?' he asks hopefully.

'No,' I answer, rolling my eyes. When his face falls, I add, 'But I have got something else.' I smile mysteriously and go down the staircase to the kitchen, George and Paul following like puppies. I point to the dining table where a single cupcake sits on a plate. 'That's yours. Unless Jude gets it before ya,' I say. 'He's had about a dozen already.'

'Yer my favourite person ever, ya know, Ange?' Paul grins and pounces on the cupcake.

'Ya better share that with George,' I add sternly.

'Aww, do I have to?' groans Paul, the cupcake an inch from his open mouth.

'Yep.'

Paul grumbles and divides the cupcake in two halves. 'Thanks,' says George, giving me his lopsided smile. He takes a bite, getting frosting on the tip of his nose. _He's so adorable. _I quickly plug my thoughts. 'You got icing on your nose,' I point out, stifling a giggle. George frowns, squinting as he tries to see the tip of his nose. He wipes a fraction of it off. 'Gone?' he asks anxiously.

'Nuh-uh.'

'Aww. Will you get it off for me?'

I get a napkin and carefully get the smudge of pink frosting off his nose. His brown eyes lock mine and I let my gaze slide away after a second, my cheeks heating. 'All clear.' He smiles, munching the cupcake. 'Hey! Superb artist _and _baker!' he exclaims, grinning.

'Godly, this is,' Paul agrees through a mouthful of cupcake. He swallows and then says, 'We were just going ta hang out at my place, and we called you from the window but you didn't hear.'

We go to Paul's backyard and have just sat down when Paul smacks his head. 'I forgot ter buy me new strings, two of mine broke.' He fingers the four remaining strings of his guitar desolately. 'I'll just run and buy them, okay?' He goes off, leaving George and me. George strums a chord on his guitar and then says to me, 'Have you ever played the guitar, Angie?'

I shake my head.

'Come on, I'll teach you.' I brighten when he says this and brings his guitar to sit next to me. He rests it in my lap and puts one of my arms around the body of the guitar. 'Here, put this arm like this. Leave yer wrist loose.' He picks up my other hand. 'Keep this hand like _this_,' he makes a motion with his wrist. 'Now put your fingers like this.' He positions my fingers on some strings. 'Don't put your fingers so close to the frets. Fingertips, not pads.' He nods as I obey. 'Now play.' I drag his guitar pick eagerly and clumsily across the strings, producing a shaky chord. 'Very good,' he tells me, smiling his crooked smile. I smile back, knowing I sound terrible but enjoying it anyway.

He teaches me some more chords, and though I'm eager to be a good student, I keep getting distracted by his warm calloused hands that reach to move mine whenever I get the positions wrong, how near he's sitting, the rewarding smiles and praises he gives me whenever I play something right. I think of how his earlier shy, quiet, closed-off image has slowly fallen away over these few months that I've gotten to know him, to reveal a sweet, thoughtful, talented, talkative boy.

It feels like just two minutes have passed before Paul returns. 'Angie, yer mum told me ter tell ya, she wants ya ter go back home,' he says.

'For what?' I frown. George's hand has frozen on top of mine, which rests on the neck of the guitar.

Paul shrugs. Regretfully I give George his guitar back and get up to leave. 'Bye, Paulie, George,' I say as I go.

I hear his response over my shoulder, 'Bye Angie!'

As I walk home, humming happily and with a spring in my step, the rain begins to pound down. I don't hurry, though. I let it soak me as I skip home, smiling all the way.


	7. Chapter 7

**This chapter was inspired by the scene Hold Me Tight in Across the Universe :) I hope you like it! **

**Disclaimer: I do not own the Beatles or anything else you might recognize. **

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**Yesterday**

**Chapter Seven: Hold Me Tight**

It's seven o'clock and I don't need the nudge from my alarm clock to drop my pen on top of the sheet of Math questions that I'm working on - they're incomprehensible, but then, Math always is to me. 'Getting ready?' asks my mother from where she sits on the sofa. I nod and go up to my room. There, I take out the dress that I decided from beforehand to wear tonight - it's dark blue, black stencilled designs, with thin straps, goes in at my waist and then lightly out, not in a puffy way, and reaches above my knees. The style isn't the typical English-teen-girl style - my sister Sho got it for me from New York - but I like it that way. I don't want to force myself into a tight dress and heels that will make me look like Brigitte Bardot and every other girl who'll be out tonight. That doesn't really suit me.

I wear the dress and then comb my hair, deciding to leave it open. A dress is dressy enough, I decide, and don't wear any jewellery other than a silver anklet over my black flats. Then I'm ready. I go downstairs and to my horror I find that the cupcake I had set on the table is missing. 'Jude!' I exclaim, horrified. It's not him, though, it's Petri and Della, my two adorable cousins who are staying here now. They look at me with wide, innocent eyes, pink frosting all over their faces. 'Yeah, Jiji?'

'Never mind,' I say, smiling - I should've known better than to leave a cupcake in the open in this house. I quickly take out the spare one I had made, sweep a layer of pink icing on top and then write JOHN in green icing. The J is shaky and the O is not quite round, and the N resembles a sideways S, but it'll do.

Today is John's eighteenth birthday, and he's taking us all out. I know him a little better, since I watch lots of their gigs and rehearsals. He can't stop himself from making a witty remark at anything someone says or does, but he's very thoughtful and creative. He takes an interest in my photography and always poses for me.

Paul and I walk to John's together. We're all meeting there and then we'll go to the club from his house. 'Do I get one too?' asks Paul, making his hazel eyes big and round when he sees the cupcake sheltered in my hands. 'Nuh uh,' I state. He looks crestfallen. 'Not even a bite?' he pouts.

'Alright, one lick of icing. That's all!'

Stu, Pete and George are already at John's. Pete is the drummer; he's a nice guy, with a boyish smile, blue eyes, and the only one in the band with short hair. Stu studies in the same art school as John; he's just been recruited as their bassist. He combs his hair back and almost always wears dark glasses. I talk to him a lot, since he's an artist too.

There are three girls, too. One of them I recognize as Cynthia, John's girlfriend: she and I always hang out at the gigs and she's often there for their rehearsals too. The dark-haired girl in the green dress I recognize as Abby, Pete's girlfriend. The third girl I don't know, though I do know her type: gorgeous, blonde hair, facefull of makeup. I'm not one to stereotype but there are just some people you can see right through.

And she's clutching George's arm with both of her own.

A hot emotion rises inside of me and I recognize it as one that I don't often feel: jealousy. As simple and plain as that: jealousy. Because I'm jealous that George is taking this other girl out.

But nobody will know what I don't want them to, because isn't hiding my emotions the best thing that I do?

I smile and say hi to Pete and Stu and Cyn, all of whom have just said hi to Paul and me. I look towards George and acknowledge his presence too, in the same way I always would. Maybe a little less friendly. So little that nobody will notice, except maybe him. He looks awkward and unsure. He twitches his arm a little in the blonde girl's grasp, but she doesn't seem to notice and just holds on tighter. I pretend like it's flown right over my head.

John comes down the stairs and grins as all of us start shouting, 'Happy birthday!'

'Why, thank you,' he says, taking an exaggerated bow. He hugs each of us in turn - kisses Cynthia - and then he grins at the cupcake in my hand. 'This is mine and nobody else's!' he declares, giving me a big hug. All the boys watch with wide eyes as he slowly and exaggeratedly takes off its wrapper; licks an edge off the icing. He smirks at their hopeful faces.

'Please, Johnny?' whispers Stu pathetically. 'Just a wee bite?'

'Hmm,' John considers thoughtfully and then smiles wickedly. 'Nope!' He ceremoniously takes a bite and a look of wonder spreads on his face. 'This is ...' He just moans happily and scarfs down the rest of the cupcake.

We're going to watch a band called Rory Storm and the Hurricanes tonight. They're performing in a place that the Quarrymen hope to get a gig in sometime: the Cavern Club. I'm amazed that my mother let me go: I guess she's never met John or Stu, who are always dressed in their Teddy boy attire: leather jackets, drainpipe trousers, gelled-back hair. She's only met innocent-faced Paul and George, whose manners she is extremely impressed with. And I did tone down my description of the Cavern Club. I basically described our plan for the night as going to a little café to hear a couple of musicians and have a snack.

What we're really doing: going to a club to hear a rock band and dance and drink.

Okay, I guess I won't drink.

... not _that _much. Just a lil' bit.

And I'm not going let the presence of George's blonde girl affect me. Who knows, maybe she's not even his girlfriend. Though I can't imagine she's anything else, the way she's clinging to him.

We leave John's house after saying hello and goodbye to his strict-faced aunt, and then get into her old beat-up car. John drives and the rest of us pile in somehow: the boys sit on the seats and then all of us girls crawl in and sit on top of them. I'm sitting on Paul and I try to keep as much of my weight off him as I can so as not to burden him, and I press myself against the door so that we both have place to breathe. George scoots in next to us and the blonde girl - I still don't know her name - sits on his lap. But instead of trying to make sure he's as comfortable as she is, she leans back on him as though he's an armchair. He looks distinctly uncomfortable but he's George, so he's not going to say anything.

Despite all of us being crammed into the car with barely space to move a finger, the ride there is a lively one. George is unnaturally quiet, but I don't think anyone else has noticed.

The Cavern Club is full of bodies, dancing, drinking, smoking. We've come just in the middle of the first song. I dance with Paul and then with Pete and a couple of the boys' friends who we run into there. I notice Stu hanging on the sidelines, drinking. He insists that he doesn't dance, _won't _dance, but I finally manage to get him to dance one song.

John gives me a mug of beer - it's the first time I'm trying alcohol other than a few sips from my parents' glasses sometimes, and while I don't much care for the taste I do like the burning sensation it gives as it goes down my throat. I decide it's best not to have too much though, so I have half the mug and then give the rest to Paul, who happily swigs it down.

I manage to forget about George and that blonde girl because it's so much fun dancing to this music. I see him coming towards me through the crowd once, but I slip away somehow so that he loses me.

It's almost eleven thirty - we've been here a long time, though it doesn't feel it - and I spot George pushing through the crowd again, approaching me. 'Angie,' he calls, but I pretend not to have heard him over the music. I discover there's nowhere to go but upstairs, out onto the street. So I go up and let my lungs expand with the fresh air. It's nighttime - the sky is a patchwork of black and blue scraps showered with stars.

'Angie,' George says breathlessly again, and he's right behind me so I can't ignore him. He catches my hand just in case I do. I turn around and shrug my hand out of his warm calloused one. 'What?' I say.

He looks a little confused. 'What are you doing out here? You're not going already, are you?'

'No, I just wanted some fresh air,' I lie.

'Oh.' There's a short silence in which I look up at the street lamp which spills tungsten light on us and George looks at me and I pretend like I don't see him looking. Then he says, 'I didn't get to dance with you tonight.'

I say, 'I didn't see you there.'

'Will you dance with me now?'

My heart practically melts, there's nothing I want to do more. I think of the blonde girl who was clutching George's arm - and how he's left her right now just to dance with me. So I smile and say, 'Sure.' George's face relaxes into a relieved grin and he takes my hand and we go back down to the Cavern Club, where the music pounds through our blood and vibrates under our skin. Now they're playing a slower song and the crowd of dancing people are dancing slower too. George's hands are warm and secure on my waist and I put mine on his shoulders, close to the collar of his leather jacket. I don't register much a apart from that and how I can't see his eyes in the darkness and how we're just floating through space and time. We're one thing, George and I and the music.

The song ends and it makes me feel as though I've been walking down a street and the sidewalk as suddenly dropped away from under my feet. We stop moving, but George doesn't lift his hands from around me and I don't move mine from around him. There's still an inch of space between us because we're both too shy to make the move and close it, and is it my imagination that it's getting smaller? And now here's the blonde girl. She tugs George's arm and says something in his ear. 'Maybe the next song?' he says politely, shrugging her hand off his arm, not moving his hands from my waist. But just then John comes and says, 'I haven't gotten to dance with ya yet, Ange, I owe it to ya after that cupcake!' The blonde girl takes the opportunity to drag George away and I reflexively look over my shoulder to George, who gives me an apologetic glance before he's out of sight. 'I'm sorry, did I interrupt something?' John smirks. 'Ah, young love. The innocence!' He puts on a knowing look, and grins at my expression. 'Aw, don't look at me like that. It's me birthday!'

I dance a little while more with John. He teases me about George - he is incredibly good at reading people too, like me, because trust me, I am _the _best at hiding what I don't want other people to see. And I don't want people to see how much I like George because - well, I just don't. After a little while I let John go because Cynthia must be missing him.

We all go to a diner after Rory Storm and the Hurricanes finish performing. I sit next to Stu and we have just begun a conversation about one of his new paintings when George slides quietly into the seat next to me. He says, 'I'm sorry I had to leave you when we were dancing before. It's just -' he cocks his head towards the bathroom which his girlfriend has gone into.

'That's okay,' I say quickly.

'No, it's not,' he says, frowning. 'She's not -' he hesitates. 'She's not my girlfriend, you know.'

I raise my eyebrows, because I don't believe him. 'She's not!' he says again. I just shrug and okay it, though I still don't really believe it.

When we're done eating, Paul and I say that we're going to go. I'm waiting for Paul, who's fawning all over a pretty brunette he met at the club, and while I stand waiting for him to finish saying goodbye to her, someone taps me on the shoulder and it's George. He hugs me: he smells like smoke and leather and an intoxicating aftershave, and his arms are warm around me. I don't want to let my arms drop from around him, but Paul's waiting so I let go. George flashes his crooked smile and says softly, 'Bye, Angie.' I smile back and say, 'Bye.'

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**I hope you liked it! :) Review. -Jen. **


	8. Chapter 8

**I'm sorry I haven't updated in a few days. I want to finish writing this story because I've got two others waiting to be written! :D Here's chapter 8. I think it's my longest chapter yet. :O See if you can get my Beatles song references. XD **

**Disclaimer: I do not own the Beatles or anything else you might recognize. **

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**Yesterday**

**Chapter Eight: It's Gonna Be Alright**

It's late at night - two, I think, or three - and my sister Sho and I are sitting on the floor of my bedroom and talking, because she's still going according to New York time and can't sleep. I'm seeing her for the first time in over a year now - she's changed so much. She's more confident, more sure of herself, independent and happy. I see the little changes New York has made in her - in the way she dresses, a kind of bohemian-hipster style, the way she talks - she's picked up a bit of an American accent - the things she believes in - the Vietnam war that's creating such an impact on America. I can't wait to go to New York like her, except I won't be going to study, I'll be going to become a photographer. I just can't wait. Except I'll have to wait a while - I'll have to finish school. I've even gotten a proper camera now, not a soapbox one - a professional one. It took me ages to save up for it - I've been saving for it since I was eleven. It lets me express myself so much more - it gives me more control on the photographs that I take.

It takes more than a little effort to drag myself out of my bed in the morning after a night of four hours' sleep - at least Sho has the jet-lag excuse to not wake up on time. Over breakfast, I mention to my parents, in the passing, that I can't wait to go to New York.

My mother swallows her coffee too fast and coughs. 'New York?' she says, raising her eyebrows. '_You're _going to New York?'

Just the way she says it irritates me, like it's so impossible, the idea of me being anywhere but here in dull Liverpool. 'Yeah,' I say. 'When I get out of school.'

'Yeah, okay,' says my mother, like she's humouring me. 'We'll see.'

That pulls the trigger. I fight to keep control of my voice and keep my language clean because I know what that _we'll see _means. _We'll see _basically means, _no, it's not gonna happen, I'm just saying this so you don't throw a tantrum. _I have known _we'll see _for years. It's the cruel little thing that induces hope and then crushes you with disappointment. 'Yeah, we will see,' I say evenly. 'You don't think I'm going to stay here, do you?'

'Just what is wrong with here?' she says. My father is quiet as usual. He doesn't get into these arguments. In this house, it's my mother's word.

'Nothing,' I reply. 'I don't see why you have a problem with me wanting to go to New York to be a photographer after school. You've always encouraged my photography!'

'Sweetie, of course you should be a photographer,' she says, 'just why in New York? You'll never manage yourself.'

_Ouch_. I know she _thinks _it, but she never says it out and out. I slam my chair back as I rise to my feet. 'I'm not going to live with you forever! What did you think? You never had a problem with Sho going to New York, so why not me?'

Sho comes down the stairs in her pyjamas, rubbing her eyes blearily. 'What's that?'

'Sho is different,' snaps my mother. She seems to regret this statement the moment it falls from her lips.

_Sho is different. _'Because she's the older one, is that it?' I'm fighting tears of anger now, and I've long since stopped trying to keep my voice down. 'Because she's more responsible?'

'Young lady, that is enough,' says my mother sharply.

'No, it's not enough,' I say. 'I want to you to accept -'

'I said that's enough! You're grounded for a week.'

I gape wordlessly at her. Is she serious? I've always been a perfectly well-behaved child - never stepped out of line, always done what I was told. I open my mouth once and I'm grounded? I guess it's okay for Sho to be rebellious because she's the first born child. And it's okay for Jude to have attitude because he's a boy. Well, look at me, the youngest girl child, grounded for speaking up! 'I don't think so,' I say, my voice low and even. I push back my chair and stalk out of the kitchen. I haven't finished my cereal and I'm not even wearing shoes, but I leave the house, stopping only for a second to snatch up my camera by the strap from the sofa.

Once I shut the door of the house behind me, I don't look back and I force the tears to stay in till I round the corner of the street. Once I'm off the street, sure that my mom's not following me and can't see me, I let the tears break through. I keep walking, tears flowing, feeling humiliated and underestimated and suppressed and I'm thinking that my parents are such hypocrites, for all that they taught me about independence and equality and justice they're no better than anyone else. They're not stopping me from going where I want to - that's for sure - it's just that they're behaving this way, treating me like I'm incapable, that's made me so upset. Maybe it's my time of the month. I don't know. I don't normally cry this easy.

'Angie!' Someone calls from behind, it's Paul I think. I hear voices - it's all the boys and I don't want to see them, don't want to see anybody, right now. So I ignore them and keep walking, but Paul runs up to me. 'What's wrong?' he says, concerned, looking at my tear-stained face. He motions to the rest of the boys to go on into his house. Once we're alone, he turns to me with a listening face. Because it's Paul I can tell him what's bothering me. He listens and then he pulls me into a big hug. It's comforting, Paul's arms around me warm and tight. In that shelter, with my face pressed into his shoulder, I stop crying and dry my tears. There, no evidence left. 'I'm sorry,' I mutter, pushing back my hair.

Paul looks confused. 'For what?'

'For crying.'

'Aw, Ange, ya don't hafta be sorry about that. It's _good _to cry, ya know? Stress reliever.'

Paul and I walk back to his house. I stop for a second to peer into the rear view mirror of his father's car, just to make sure that my eyes aren't red. It looks as though I was never crying. Satisfied, I let Paul throw one arm around my shoulders and we walk to his house. The boys are in the basement. Pete's crashing on an old drum kit of his that he brought to Paul's a while ago, so that they can practice here, because his house is too far. When I go in, four pairs of wide, curious eyes swivel around to stare at me as I walk self-consciously to an upside-down box and sit down on it, careful not to tangle my ankles in the wires of their guitars. I don't look up at any of them, because I know they're all still staring, expectantly, waiting for me to tell them why I was crying. Because I have nothing else to do, I open up my camera and take the batteries out in a very businesslike way.

Paul clears his throat. 'Let's start, shall we? Ready, John?'

'Yeah,' says John. They start to play _Hello Little Girl. _They don't play too long - before long we all go upstairs to get a drink. I sit at the table while they bang around the cabinets, arguing over who gets the last sips of coke. After a few minutes they all go into the living room. 'Ange?' says Paul expectantly, waiting for me to follow.

'I'll come in a sec,' I say. He nods and goes.

They've all left the kitchen except John. I don't want to talk to John right now. He sits down across the table from me and drums nonchalantly. Then he says, 'Why were ya crying?'

I ignore him.

'Boyfriend dumped ya?'

'Don't have a boyfriend,' I state through gritted teeth. _Go away, go away_.

'Thought so, or ya wouldn't be gazing at Georgie with those big eyes.' I can just picture John's trademark smirk on his lips. I ignore him again.

'Why were ya crying?'

_Ignore him. _

'Jesus, ya don't hafta be such a _girl_!' says John, spitefully. If it were any other time I'd chide him for being sexist, but right now I just ignore him. 'Ya know, they like ter put on a show of acting okay just so they get asked...'

_I will give you grief for that sometime, _I think privately. But outside I have on my poker face that betrays no emotion. Instead, I pretend to be extremely absorbed in fixing and unfixing the lens of my camera.

'Why were ya crying?'

_Ignore, ignore, ignore. _

John reaches across the table and snatches the camera out of my hands. 'I said, why were ya crying?'

My hands go still, still cupped around an imaginary camera. I stare at my knees, pulled up to my chest. John's opening up the camera, unfixing the lens, pressing his calloused fingertips to the lens so that there are fingerprints all over it, unrolling the taut film and making a tapey mess of it. _Get your hands off! _I scream in my head.

'Give it back,' I say quietly.

John grins, triumphant, having made me speak. 'Why were ya crying?'

'Give it back!' I half-shout. 'You're ruining it!'

'Only if ya tell me why.'

'I don't want to, John! Just give me the fucking camera back and leave me the fuck alone!'

John scowls, hard. 'Take your fucking camera,' he growls, and pushes it roughly across the tabletop to me.

I know he meant only to push it far enough to reach me, but there's just a little too much force in his hand and the camera slides right over the edge of the table. It topples over and lands with a sickening crash and a crunch of breaking glass on the floor. I stare at it dumbly. I go to my knees in front of it, prod the edge of that mess of disassembled plastic, of ruined film and shattered lens and broken mirror. Slowly I raise my eyes from the ruined camera to John's face. He's shocked; horrified. 'I didn't mean - it wasn't - I didn't mean -' he stammers. 'I - I didn't mean to,' he whispers.

l slowly pick up the pieces of my camera, each bit of broken glass and plastic, and carry them out of the house. 'Angie,' says John as I walk past, but I ignore him, shut the door, leave the house. I don't know where to go, so I go to the park and sit under a tree, out of sight. I drop the broken pieces onto my lap and gaze at them.

It's broken

Years of savings

For years

Four years

Broke

By John's temper.

Now I _know _it has to be my time of the month, because I'm crying again. I cry and I let myself cry, feeling unfathomably stupid, but crying anyway. It helps because when I'm done I feel better. I scrunch a handful of the fabric of my shirt and dry my eyes.

Footsteps. It's someone - it's George. From the corner of my eye I see him peep around the tree, as if looking for something - and apparently it's me he's looking for, because he comes around it and cautiously sits down. He looks at me. 'Angie?' he says. 'What's wrong?'

In answer, I let my gaze slide from his concerned brown eyes to my lap. 'Oh,' he says. A frown furrows his black eyebrows. 'How did ...?'

'John,' I say. He looks angry. 'It was a mistake,' I add quietly.

George scoots closer and puts one arm around me. 'He's an ass,' he tells me. 'We'll get you another one.'

I try to smile, because now that someone's comforting me I feel more like crying. Crying about what? It's irrational, but whenever I cry, I feel guilty, because I have two parents and a proper brick house and clothes and food and an education, and I've seen children with not one of those things. And I do manage to smile, because in addition to all of that, I have a sweet friend like George who's smiling at me comfortingly, one arm around me, trying to make me feel better. Without thinking I rest my head on his shoulder, and a second later I wonder if he minds, but he doesn't because he just rubs my arm gently. After a moment I get up, offering George a hand up. He takes it and then I grin at him, because suddenly I feel lighthearted and _happy_. He grins back, a little confused, but happy anyway. Instead of leaving my hand, he cautiously leaves his fingers around mine, glancing at me to see if I'm okay with this. To show him that I am, I squeeze his warm calloused fingers and we begin to walk back to Paul's. 'Run,' I say suddenly, and we run all the way back, laughing like children.

* * *

I stay at Paul's for the night. It's okay because we've done this before, and it's not awkward. At around eight, there's a call on the phone and it's my mother. She asks to speak to me. I take the phone and put it to my ear not because I want to talk to her, but because I'm not that kind of girl.

She says, simply, 'I'm sorry. I know you're a teenage girl and you have aspirations. I just didn't like the idea of you going away so far. But it's still three years away and that's plenty of time for us to get used to it. I'm sorry.'

'It's okay,' I tell her.

'Will you come home now?'

'Tomorrow morning,' I say. 'I want to spend the night here tonight.'

'Okay,' she says, because it's Paul and she's known him for years and she knows it's alright.

I smile then, because I know it's gonna be alright.

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**Pleasepleaseplease review even if you didn't like it :) -Jen.**


	9. Chapter 9

**Well, isn't John a meanie? Nah, read this chapter before you decide :) **

**I watched Woodstock yesterday ... IT'S SO AWESOME. I'm so jealous. I wish I was born in the fifties so I could see the Beatles and Woodstock. Yesterday, in school, there was a quiz, and one of the questions was 'Name two of the Beatles albums' and the kid COULDN'T NAME THEM. :O I was so depressed. But, on the bright side, I've been converting people all around from sucky pop fans to oldie music fans. :D And I also reformed a die-hard Justin Beiber fan. It feels good. :D COME ON PEOPLE LET'S MAKE A DIFFERENCE. :P **

**Also. Couldn't think of a good Beatles song/lyric for the chapter title, so I've named it after one of my favourite songs by Junkyard Groove. :) Check it out, it's nice. **

**Disclaimer: I do not own the Beatles or anything else you might recognize. **

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**Yesterday**

**Chapter Nine: It's Okay**

There's a knock on my door. I'm lying flat on my stomach on the floor, trying to draw a glass vase a couple of feet away, and my brother's record player which I borrowed is playing softly. I begin to get up to open the door but before I do, the person comes in and I find myself staring at the tips of John Lennon's shoes. They're a little scuffed and there's a grass stain on the toes. He bends down in front of me. 'Hey,' he says quietly. For once his expression is a little sorry.

'Hey,' I say. I've settled for - not a hostile tone, but not a friendly one either. Cool. Indifferent. Like he's a stranger I don't know, and moreover, don't want to know. As much as I know that it wasn't his fault that my beloved camera broke, not a week after I'd paid four years of savings for it, I can't bring myself to forgive him exactly. I know that John's habit of disregarding other people's feelings and boundaries is one that's not going to change, which was one of the things that endeared me to him in the first place, but this is something I can't forgive. Not now anyway.

I can see Paul standing behind the doorway, trying to keep out of sight as he watches.

I go back to my drawing.

'Angie, I'm sorry I broke your camera,' he says. I can see that he's trying to put as much sincerity into those words as he can, which for John is impressive.

'It's okay' I state.

'No, it's not, which is why ...' John takes out something from behind his back and puts it on top of my drawing. It's a camera - not as good as my old one, but pretty close. I gasp. Not for the camera, but because John actually went and bought it, just to apologize to me. That itself is enough. I look from it to his face, his brown eyes watching me carefully. 'I know it's not as good, but it's all I could afford.'

'John, it's just fine,' I say, and I hug him hard. All is forgiven. This is when John and I become friends, really good friends. He grins. 'Not mad at me anymore are ya?' he says.

'Nah,' I say, grinning.

'Good, because I was kinda hoping yeh'd give me sumthin' good ter eat, cus, ya know, I haven't had any of yer stuff in a while ...' he trails off hopefully.

I burst out laughing and he looks at me confusedly. 'Yeah, okay,' I say, giggling. 'Since ya got me such a nice camera.' I grin as John smiles in a self-satisfied way.

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**Not very eventful, I know :) But don't worry. The George-Angie kiss will be coming soon ;) -Jen. **


	10. Chapter 10

**Thank you for the reviews! :) **

**Disclaimer: I do not own the Beatles or anything else you might recognize. **

* * *

**Yesterday**

**Chapter Ten: We Hope You Will Enjoy The Show**

Paul sits backstage and runs his hands through his gelled-back hair. He's wearing his leather jacket and drainpipe trousers and he looks extremely nervous. That's strange, I've never known Paul to get stage fright, though this is the biggest gig the Quarrymen are playing yet. It's in the club we came to three months ago for John's birthday - the Cavern Club. Then I realize. 'Andrea coming ta watch the gig?' I ask casually. Paul looks stricken at the mention of the pretty brunette. 'Not only to watch the gig,' he whispers, 'John asked her ta come have dinner with us afterwards!'

'Did he and Cyn break up, then?' I ask.

'No, he asked from my side,' mumbles Paul. 'It was so embarrassing. She must think I'm an idiot.'

I grin. 'Nervous?'

He gulps and nods.

'Ya know, I'm sure she's dying for yer attention,' I tell him. 'Teddy boy, guitarist in a skiffle group? I'd take it.'

Paul smiles suddenly. 'Yeah, ya would,' he says slyly. 'One particular guitarist, in fact,' he refers to George, and I feel my cheeks heat.

'At least I'm not wetting myself with nervousness,' I retort. Paul's grin fades. 'Paul, don't ya know all the girls are at yer feet? You don't have anything ta be nervous about.'

'They are?' he asks dubiously.

'They are,' I confirm, thinking of the giggling schoolgirls who ogle Paul whenever he comes to pick me up from school. 'Not that ya needed ta know that, with yer ego,' I add, joking.

'Hey!' he says, indignant, and starts tickling me.

'No,' I gasp, struggling away and landing on the floor. I scoot away from him quickly before he gets me again, laughing.

That's when George comes in and looks at us, confused. His confused expression is so adorable. 'Ready, Macca?' yells John, entering the room boisterously. He swings his guitar case in the air and throws it up. George catches it just in time. 'We're gonna be rock stars,' John bawls happily. 'To the poppertoast of the topperpost!'

'John, are ya _drunk_?' demands Paul angrily.

'No!' exclaims John, looking hurt and innocent.

'Totally drunk,' declares Stu, who has just come in. 'I got back ta the apartment, and I found 'im drunk outta his mind.'

'How are we going ta play?' asks Paul dismally. John giggles. 'Gimme a hug, Macca,' he says, throwing himself onto Paul. Paul staggers under his weight and Pete and George quickly support him.

'I can play,' says John brightly. 'Who said I can't?' He looks angry suddenly. 'Who says I can't play, huh? Show yourself!'

'John, ya can't play,' says Stu reasonably. 'What are we going ta do?'

'Go out there and play,' says George simply, and I love him for that.

And that's what they do. They go out there and play and the crowd loves them.

Who can't love these five boys?

Cynthia and I push through the crowd to find place in the front. I look anxiously up to John - he's a bit unsteady, but he's holding the mic to stay upright. Just as long as he stays in the same place, he'll be okay, I think.

They start playing. Stu looks regal and poker-faced as he plays, dark glasses still on as he plays. Paul smiles happily, wagging his head from side to side. John looks drunk, but he's managing. Lastly I look towards George. His pale skin is made brighter under the lights of the stage, his dark hair combed back like John and Paul and Stu's. He plays his guitar easily but carefully, long fingers careful not to mess up a single note. His dark eyes search the crowd and then they meet mine and he smiles. Apparently it's me he was looking for, because now he's stopped searching. The thought makes me feel warm and happy.


	11. Chapter 11

**Thank you for the reviews! :) **

**Disclaimer: I do not own the Beatles or anything else you might recognize. **

* * *

**Yesterday**

**Chapter Eleven: Birthday**

It's Paul's birthday today and I'm baking him a cake. Normally I just do cupcakes, but since he's turning sixteen, a cake is in order.

We used to celebrate our birthdays together, Paul and I, because my birthday is just a week and a half away, but not this year. I flick a couple of drops of blue food colouring into a bowl of icing and fold it in. As I do, George, Stu and John enter the kitchen. They're carrying a handsome acoustic guitar between them. It has a ribbon around the neck. 'Ta-da!' says John, grinning. 'Paul's birthday gift.'

'Whoa,' I say, impressed, 'He's going ta love it!'

The three boys look extremely self-satisfied. John notices the icing bowl and makes a beeline for it. I whisk it away from his reach just in time. 'Oh no you don't, Lennon,' I say, whirling away from him.

'Aww, please?'

'You can lick the bowl when I'm done,' I say. He brightens. 'Okay!' He and Stu go into the living room to practice a version of _Happy Birthday _they've figured out on the guitar for Paul. George lingers behind. 'Can I have a lick?' he asks, grinning.

'Hmm...' I pretend to consider. 'Alright.' I stick two fingers in the bowl, scoop up some icing with them and hold them out to George. I expect him to take it off my hand with his, but instead he just leans forward playfully and licks the icing straight off my finger. He chuckles at my surprised expression. 'Mmm, this is good.' He has a bit of icing on his bottom lip.

After I've finished icing the cake, the four of us walk to Paul's house. He's awestruck when the boys present him with the new guitar. He can't stop staring at it and blubbering, 'It's amazing.' When he cuts the cake, John pushes his head down so that he gets a faceful of icing. All of us are laughing and I suddenly catch a memory of this day so many years ago, Paul and I celebrating our birthdays when we were just kids. He's sixteen now and I'm going to be fifteen, and he's nearly a man now: long dark hair combed back from a handsome face, tall, confident about what he wants to do: music. And then me; I think I've grown since that birthday so many years ago, too.

* * *

When it's dark, and we're walking home, George walks back with me because it's on his way. At least I _think _it's on his way; I can't be sure. We talk about things, and since I'm in a nostalgic mood today I remember how shy we both were when we first met each other. We're so close now, as friends, but I want more. I don't know what it is that I like so much about George. I've liked him since I first met him. He's only a little older than me, too.

We're at my house now. We hug each other - that's what we always do - but when we break apart, the scent of him still lingering in my nostrils, George hesitates for a second and then swiftly leans down and kisses my cheek. Then he says, 'Bye, Ange,' and goes.

I stare at him walking down the street and when he turns, out of sight, I raise one hand to touch the tingling spot on my cheek.

* * *

**Don't be disappointed, that's not the proper George and Angie kiss. That will be coming soon. ;) -Jen. **


	12. Chapter 12

**Thank you for the lovely reviews! :) **

**Disclaimer: I do not own the Beatles or anything else you might recognize. **

* * *

**Yesterday **

**Chapter Twelve: Love You All The Time and Never Leave You**

It's a hot, hot day. Summers in Liverpool never get this hot, though the summers in India were far hotter. I doodle spirals on the back of my notebook and think about George's kiss from two months ago, while waiting for the teacher to let us go. What did he mean by it? Was it nothing more than a friendly peck on the cheek? I haven't had the chance to ask him. Truthfully, I know I won't ever have the guts to. I'll never know, I guess.

I tug at my hair tie and let my hair fall open. _It won't be long_, I think, gazing at the clock and willing it to tick faster.

Yes! Freedom! I grab my books and get out of the building. I cross the street to Quarry Bank Boys' High so that I can walk home with Paul - on Fridays, I always skip the bus and walk home with him instead - but when he comes out, half an hour later when the boys' school gets over, he informs me desolately that he has detention and can't walk home with me. 'Been a bad boy, Paulie?' I tease him.

'Nah, I didn't do some dumb old Maths shite,' grumbles Paul. He runs a hand through his hair wearily. 'Guess I better get back to Mr. Dickson. I'm sorry I can't walk home with ya, Ange.'

'I'll walk ya home,' offers George, I hadn't seen him standing there.

We walk home together and because it's so hot, we buy orange ice lollies. I don't have money on me, so George pays for mine. _He's such a gentleman._ 'Thank you,' I say in an exaggeratedly fancy voice as we walk away from the ice cream stall, ripping the wrappers off our lollies. 'Yer welcome,' says George in an equally put-on voice, bowing and doffing an imaginary hat.

We laugh and talk all the way home and the normal twenty-minute walk seems to pass in two minutes. It occurs to me that this is the first time George and I have been alone together since Paul's birthday two months ago. I suddenly wonder if he'll kiss my cheek again. Does he do that with other girls? What about that blonde girl from John's birthday? Did he ever kiss her cheek? I feel like it's something important. But soon my doubts are washed away by George's animated voice as he talks, he's telling me something about the band - he's certainly talkative once he starts talking, something that's changed since I first met him. His lips are orange from the ice lolly. I imagine that mine must be, too.

Suddenly, mischievously, he leans in and tries to get a bite of my ice lolly. 'Hey!' I say, laughing, and hold it out of his reach. 'Only if ya say please.'

'Please?' he begs, giving me those puppy dog eyes. I giggle and hold out the ice lolly. 'One teeny-tiny bite,' I say, who can resist those eyes? He grins and takes a bite.

And then we're outside my street. Well, that was fast. Why couldn't this walk have been a wee bit longer? I'm convinced that Father Time turned the clocks faster just so my walk home with George would be slower. _Mother _Time would've given me more time with George.

My philosophy on Time is interrupted because I remember I have to say goodbye to George before going in. We stop at the turn of the street, not quite on it yet. We're under a tree and the sun slants through the leaves, dappling shadows and light on us in equal parts. It's a refuge from the glaring heat of the day. At the same time, we both stop walking. Is he going to walk me all the way home, I wonder? Or will he just leave me here? We just stand there and smile at each other for a second. 'Coming fer band practice tomorrow?' asks George. I wasn't planning to, but maybe now I will. 'Yeah,' I say, and then he leans in and kisses my lips.

His lips are icy cold and taste like orange from the orange ice lolly. They're soft and gently press against mine, for a single crystal moment when the clouds are prisms through which the sunlight blossoms into rainbows, and then George pulls back and grins at me. 'C'mon,' he says, and we walk the remaining way to my house. I'm still speechless. George is smiling, and I think I'm smiling too. 'Bye,' I say.

'Bye,' he says, and I watch him walk away with my lips still tingling from my first kiss.

* * *

**I hope you liked it :) That was kind of how my first kiss went. -Jen. **


	13. Chapter 13

**Thank you so much for the reviews! :) I'm not sure about which Beatle wrote In Spite Of All The Danger, but for this story, it's Paul, okay? :D Also, I know that I previously called Angie's cousins Petri (Patricia) and Della, but I've changed them to Nico and Della. **

**Disclaimer: I do not own the Beatles or anything else you might recognize. **

* * *

**Yesterday**

**Chapter Thirteen: You Like Me Too Much and I Like You**

I can't stop thinking about George's kiss. All through today, it's all I've been thinking about in school: I drift through classes and dutifully take notes of whatever the teachers say, but in my head I'm in another world. I still can't believe that George kissed me. And I can't mistake it for a friendly kiss. It's a weird, floaty, _amazing _feeling, knowing that the boy I've liked since I was - what, thirteen? - likes me too. I've never been one to take crushes seriously - to me, they're just temporary hormonal feelings that aren't important enough to pursue - so I don't know why I can't stop thinking about the way George's lips felt gently pressed against mine, one of his warm hands lingering on my arm. It wasn't anything intense - it was short, innocent and sweet. I can't help but smile when I think of it.

Luckily, my two little cousins Nico and Della are the only ones around to notice my secret smile. They sit on the carpet and stack wooden blocks in towers and arches, absorbing themselves in their little wooden city of dolls and toy cars. It's not difficult, looking after them - it just requires lots of attention. I sit on the floor and do my Maths homework on the coffee table, keeping a watchful eye on them while juggling strings of numbers in my head. _Stupid Maths_. There, I've finally found answer to the impossibly long algebra sum I've been working on for the past fifteen minutes. I flip to the back of the book to see if the answer is right.

It's not.

Gah. I scribble on top of the lines and lines of hastily scrawled numbers to cancel them out, none too neatly, and I'm just beginning to rework the sum when the phone rings. I jump to my feet and then hesitate, reluctant to leave Nico and Della on their own - but as it continues to ring persistently, I quickly hop over the blocks and pick up the receiver in the other room. It's my mother - she's calling me to tell me that she'll be home in an hour.I put down the receiver and run into the other room in time to see Nico piling the blocks into an impossibly tall, thin stack that towers high above his head. The tower sways and then collapses on top of Nico's head.

'Sh, sh, it's okay,' I murmur soothingly, rubbing the top of the bawling three-year-old's head. 'There, better?' Nico stops crying and nods. 'What a brave boy! Come on, why don't we go get something to eat?' Five-year-old Della puts down her doll and nods. 'Goodnight, Patsy,' she says to the doll. 'Patsy is having her afternoon nap,' she informs me. 'She's not a big girl yet. But I am,' she adds, standing up straight. 'That's why I don't need an afternoon nap anymore!'

'Hmm, I don't think so, Dell,' I say, grinning. 'You're not getting out of your afternoon nap, missy.' Della pouts as I scoop up Nico and carry him to the kitchen. I make sure they're both firmly in their chairs. 'Now, what do you wanta eat?'

'Gettie! Gettie!' burbles Nico excitedly.

'He means spaghetti,' Della tells me.

'Spaghetti sounds good,' I decide, and start to take out the things. I give them paper and colour pencils to keep them occupied while I make their lunch. While I'm making it, the doorbell rings. 'Don't move,' I tell them, and run to open it. It's George. 'Hey,' he says, flashing his crooked smile. 'I was just going ta Paul's fer band practice. It's not till four.'

'Oh, okay. I hafta babysit my cousins, but you can come in,' I say. My heart flutters. He follows me into the kitchen. The two children look at George with bright-eyed interest. 'This is Nico, he's three years old,' I say, ruffling the little boy's black hair. 'And this is Della, she's five.' The children nod at George solemnly. 'And this is George,' I tell them.

'Like Curious George?' pipes Nico.

'Who's Curious George?' says George.

'He's a monkey,' I say, stifling a giggle. 'From one of their books.'

'Oh,' says George, and blushes. I put the spaghetti in front of Nico and Della and they start eating it. Nico gets it all over his chin and I quickly put a napkin around his collar so it doesn't stain his shirt too. George hovers close to me while I make sure that I'm doing my babysitting job properly. I wish so much that we could be alone right now.

After they're done eating, I dunk the dishes in the sink to wash later and then take them up for their nap. 'I don't wanta go to sleep,' wails Nico. 'I wanna play. I'm a big boy, like Curious George,' he points a finger at George, who looks amused. 'C'mon, Nico, big boys have naps too,' he tells the little boy.

'Really?' says Nico doubtfully.

'Really,' says George. 'Tell you what, if ya listen to Angie and go ta sleep now, I'll play a song for ya to help ya sleep, yeah?'

Nico nods happily, all smiles. 'Play a song, play a song,' he sings happily as I put him and Della on my bed and make them lie down. George gets his guitar and both of them immediately spring up to watch him. 'Nuh uh,' he says. 'You gotta lie down first.' They lie down quickly. George plays them a song, his beautiful capable hands pick the strings easily, and within minutes both children's eyes are drooping. When he finishes, he strikes a very soft chord. 'Thank you, Curious George,' says Della, eyes already shut, clutching her doll to her. 'Mm,' yawns Nico sleepily. George disappears downstairs to put his guitar back in its case, and I wait a moment longer just to make sure they're really asleep. Then, very slowly, I back out of the room and ease the door shut so it won't make a sound. I turn around - straight into Paul. 'Hey, Ange,' he says happily. 'Shhh!' George and I hiss at the same time. Paul looks taken aback. 'Huh?'

'They've just fallen asleep,' explains George, in a whisper.

Paul looks bemused. 'Your kids?' he says to both of us.

'Not our kids,' I say, rolling my eyes to hide my mortification. 'My aunt's kids. I hafta babysit them.'

'Oh,' says Paul sheepishly. 'So ya can't come over ta watch us practice?'

'No,' I say regretfully.

'Well, that's okay, cos I was just coming over ta say, John and Pete and Stu can't make it, so it's just you and me, Geo. So we can practice here.'

I'm glad that I can watch them practice - I never get tired of that - but I am a tiny bit disappointed that George and I can't be alone together. He glances towards me; he's thinking the same thing too. Paul takes out his guitar, happily oblivious. 'I wrote a song,' he says, a little shyly.

'Play it,' orders George. Paul tunes his guitar a little andthen plays and sings, '_In spite of all the danger, in spite of all that may be, I'll do anything for you, anything you want me to, if you'll be true to me. In spite of all the heartache that you may cause me, I'll do anything for you, anything you want me to, if you'll be true to me._' When he finishes, he looks at us expectantly.

'It's amazing, Paulie,' I tell him sincerely. Not only does he have a great voice, he's got a talent for writing songs, too. 'Yeah,' says George. 'Have ya showed that to John yet?'

'Showed him yesterday,' says Paul.

'Well, did 'e like it?' asks George.

Paul nods proudly. 'I was thinking of, um ...' His cheeks redden. 'Uh, playing it for ... um.'

'Andrea?' I prompt gently. George grins teasingly.

'Yeah,' mumbles Paul, not looking at us. He took her out for a date on Friday, but I haven't yet asked him how it went. 'She'll love it,' I say. And it's true - it's such a good song. I can't imagine any girl turning _that _down.

Around seven, Paul and George leave. I give Paul a hug like I normally do and I want so badly to kiss George, but Paul's here, so instead I just give him a hug too. When they leave, I sit down on the sofa and pick up one of the sheets that Nico and Della had been drawing on and doodle idly on it. A moment later, the doorbell rings. Is that my mother already? She shouldn't be back so early. I open the door and it's George. He grins at me. 'I couldn't say goodbye properly with Paul here, could I?'

'No,' I say, glad that I don't blush easily, because if I did, I'd be red as a tomato by now. George, on the other hand, _does _blush easily, and his cheeks are fairly rosy. He leans in and kisses me and this time I kiss him back, and it's longer this time, but equally beautiful and magical and wondrous. When he leans back, he takes my hands in his big, calloused ones. 'I really, really like ya, Ange,' he says, earnestly.

I smile. 'I really, really like ya too, George.'

'So -' George starts but then realizes he doesn't need to ask me, because he knows my answer is yes. He grins. 'See ya at the gig tomorrow?' he says, and then places another light kiss on my lips and leaves, whistling.

I smile happily at his retreating figure and stand in the doorway for who knows how long, and only move when Nico's cries that tell me he's woken snap me out of my reverie.

* * *

**How cute are George and Angie? XD Review. -Jen. **


	14. Chapter 14

**Thank you so much for the reviews! :) Recently, my brother came back from THE most BEAUTIFUL beach in the world. It's not anywhere near Liverpool, but I felt like writing about it. :] **

**Disclaimer: I do not own the Beatles or anything else you might recognize. **

* * *

**Yesterday**

**Chapter Fourteen: Because The Sky is Blue, It Makes Me Cry**

I lean back on the warm sand and stare up at the paling sky. Suddenly, I get a wave of happiness so strong that I smile to nobody, wide and delirious, and then I laugh, and then I fall onto the sand and grin at the sky.

Where we are right now, I could stay forever. We're on a beach, but it's not a typical English seaside: this one is completely deserted and never visited and it's miles of endless sand stretching out on either side with just two shacks built under the palms. That's where we're staying: those shacks are a resort where we're staying. By we, I mean John, Paul, George, Stu, Cynthia, and me. Pete's mother didn't let him come. Why we're here: because John Lennon declared on the first day of the summer break that he 'could _not _spend _another _fucking summer in this same old shite' and jumped into his and Stu's beat-up old car. It took a little persuasion to make him slow down for the rest of us to get permission and pack, but we managed.

Which lands us here, in _the _most beautiful beach I've ever seen. It's not your typical English beach with rocks and white-lacy waves and seashells and families and children running all around. You can go a quarter of a mile into the water and it won't even reach your shoulders. The waves aren't riding waves with crowns of white sea foam balanced on their heads - they're ripples in the powerful muscles of the ocean. They begin as rolling bumps that crest and send the sand at the bottom of the _incredibly _clear water swirling in clouds. It's beautiful. We arrived yesterday at eight and spent most of the night swimming in the moonlit water. John and Stu didn't forgotten to stock up on alcohol before we left - which is why I'm sitting here to watch the sun rise alone, while the rest of them nurse hangovers.

The sun's not rising yet. A pale silver light close to the horizon tells me it's going to, soon.

I feel so ... _content_. I feel amazing. I feel giddy and light and floaty and happy and ...

Footsteps.

I hear the soft shush-shush of feet brushing across sand before George sits down next to me. He's wearing his sleeping t-shirt and cotton pyjamas. He takes my hand from where it lies on the sand and curls it into his, and neither of us say anything because we don't want to break the silence that's only filled with the music of the ocean and the vastness of the sky. I lean my head on his warm shoulder and smile. It's been a month and a half since George first kissed me, and we've been together since then. I've never been in a relationship before him, but I can't imagine a better boyfriend. We walk home from school almost every day, and then we end up going to the park or the movies or just walking around Liverpool together. And I'm happy - and he's happy too. That's really all I want.

George hums something, deep in his chest, and then he says, 'Ya know, this beach is beautiful.' His Scouse accent draws out the last word. He grins. 'Like you,' he adds, and it's cheesy but _so _cute. He leans down and brushes the corner of my lips with his. 'Now come,' he says suddenly, leaping to his feet and dragging me up with him. He runs across the sand and splashes into the water. I run after him and we wet ourselves thoroughly before clambering back to the beach. I sit down again because it's almost light and I want to watch the sun rising. George throws himself down next to me and we both sit there, soaking wet with our knees pulled up to our chests, waiting for the sun to rise.

And when it does rise, a pink and orange disc with a golden halo that fades the night, I start to smile and I can't stop smiling because this is just so right, sitting here with George, nothing here but the two of us and the sun, and it's beautiful and brilliant and so is he. George glances towards me and he smiles too, and then he smiles wider and wider till his smile mirrors my smile and his forehead rests on mine. I shut my eyes and our two smiles meet, and his lips are salty from seawater. When we break apart, there's a moment of silence and then George states, 'I'm hungry.'

So we walk back to the shacks, hand in hand, in search of something to eat.

* * *

**I know I wrote a kind-of similar scene in Something. Sorry, I just like to write about the ocean :D -Jen. **


	15. Chapter 15

**Thank you for the reviews! :) **

**Just a little vacation fun and George-Angie cuteness. :) **

**Disclaimer: I do not own the Beatles or anything else you might recognize. **

* * *

**Yesterday**

**Chapter Fifteen: I've Got Arms That Long To Hold You**

Let's go for a swim,' announces John. He holds up a bottle of alcohol. 'We got some good stuff to get us going!'

'Yeah!' Stu yells. We all run down to the beach. It's nighttime, around ten, and the beach is beautiful: a moonlit expanse of sand and water. I've never really had much alcohol - I do have half a glass now and then, but nothing that really makes me _feel _the effects. I decide to have it now, though. Cynthia and I share a bottle of the stuff. It burns my throat, but it's not a scorching burn - more like a glowing burn. We all run into the water till we're shoulder deep, riding the waves. It's the most amazing feeling, riding a wave. It has to be timed right - you have to make sure you jump just before it hits you, and then you have to let it carry you.

Paul and John are sitting on the sand playing their guitars, and Cyn and George and Stu and I are riding the waves, and I've had just enough alcohol that it's giving me a warm buzz, but nothing out of hand.

'Oh!' screams Cynthia suddenly, shaking her wet blonde hair out of her face. 'What is _that_?'

She points to the water. _Shark_! I think immediately, and swim frantically out of the way. George swims away too, and I clutch his arm as we watch the water in a kind of horrified anticipation.

And then the surface of the water is broken by at least twenty fish that leap in and out gracefully, making splashes in the water. Their silver and blue scaled backs are lit by the moon as they go in and out, in and out, of the water. The beach is so still and calm that it's the last thing we expected, but this moment, all of us just standing in the water, spellbound, is beautiful. I can safely say I'll never forget it.

'What the fuck?' gasps Stu. Cynthia makes a hysterical sound.

We all gape at the fish and then one by one, begin to laugh hysterically. We're so busy laughing hysterically and admiring this beautiful moment that we get caught by the next wave, which surges over our heads and dunks us. We're tumbled into the water and then left on the shore, and we just lie washed up there, spasming with delirious giggles.

'Look,' says Paul quietly.

We look to where his finger points.

In the distance, a lone dolphin dances. It's too far away for us to reach, but it's still there. Just its silhouette in the moonlight.

* * *

We stay on the beach so long that we don't notice how cloudy it's getting. When it begins to rain, we're already wet, but the ocean is beginning to get edgy, so we gather up the empty bottles and blankets and hurry to our rooms.

When I'm done changing, I'm exhausted but not quite ready to sleep. I dry my hair carefully and then there's a soft knock on my door. Cyn's already asleep, so I slip out of the room to where George stands and we go to his room. John's gone off to visit Cyn - the fact that she's sleeping doesn't stop him - Stu's having a smoke outside in the corridor and Paul's in the shower. George and I sit on the mattresses and for a long time we just talk. Like we would've before, when we were just friends. About anything and everything. After a while he lies down and we continue talking. Paul and Stu have long since come into the room and passed out on the beds, so we talk in hushed voices.

When my watch tells me it's four in the morning, I say, 'I should get some sleep,' and begin to get up, though all I want to do is curl up next to George. He's lying down in front of me, and he looks warm and sleepy. He just curls his hand around my wrist and says sleepily, 'Stay here.' So I lie down and curl into a foetal position. We lie a little apart, because we've never done this before.

I reach my hand to put it in his. 'Night,' I whisper. 'I love you,' I say, and I'm surprised at how easily the words fall from my lips - and how true they are.

George pauses for a moment, I can tell he's surprised. But he doesn't hesitate to say, 'I love you.' He leans in and we kiss, and this time it's a bit different, because we're far away from home and because of the warm buzz of alcohol in our veins. His arms wrap around me and my hands reach up to run through his dark long hair. George parts his lips and his tongue traces the length of my mouth till I part my lips too. Somehow, this kiss is different because it's not just innocent and sweet, it's intense and urgent.

And then Paul grunts loudly in his sleep and we break apart. We lie very still for a moment till we're sure he's asleep, and then George lets out a pent-up breath and I relax too. I'm very sleepy now, so I turn over, curl into a foetal position and shut my eyes. George covers both of us with a blanket and then lays next to me so that his chest presses into the back of my shoulders and his arm is around me. We lie close as two spoons in a drawer. 'Night,' I whisper, even though I've already told him that.

'Night,' murmurs George, and kisses my hair.

* * *

**The dolphin and fish part really happened to me when I was at a beach :P Just thought I'd put it in because that moment was so amazing for me. I hope you liked it :] Also, I'm sorry about the slightly random chapter titles. I can't think of very appropriate ones :P -Jen. **


	16. Chapter 16

**Thank you for the reviews! :) **

**Disclaimer: I do not own the Beatles or anything else you might recognize. **

* * *

**Yesterday**

**Chapter Sixteen: A Day In The Life**

'Whose fucking guitar,' growls John, 'is outta tune?'

The band stops playing for the fifth time in the middle of a song. Stu and Paul glance at each other. Pete lowers his drumsticks and George looks worried. John's edgy temper has been exploding all morning for the smallest things. Every few minutes, there's sure to be something that pisses him off.

If it was just a normal bad temper, the boys would've told him to chill the fuck out by now, but John's been this way ever since his mother, Julia, passed away three months ago. Constantly bitter-faced, sadistic, or just plain mean, it's clear that John's not finding this easy to deal with. I can't imagine that John's strict aunt, Mimi, is much of a comfort to him either. Paul and Stu are trying all they can to help him through it, but there's only so much they can do.

So the four boys sit patiently like scolded children, waiting for this new wave of anger to pass. 'John,' begins Paul timidly. 'No one's guitar is outta tune.'

'George!' barks John. George cringes. 'Get yer fucking guitar in tune, ya little idiot!' No one responds. 'Can't even play guitar,' mutters John darkly.

Everyone in the room, other than John, knows that George's guitar is perfectly tuned. George wordlessly tunes it again, and then he says quietly, 'John? My guitar is tuned now.'

'Then let's get this fucking song over with,' growls John.

I hold my breath and watch them resume practice. I count ten seconds before John stops playing. 'Yer guitar's still not tuned, ya little prick! Can't ya fucking tune yer own guitar? And ya call yerself a guitarist!' John slams down his guitar. 'I've had just about enough of ya,' he snaps, and stalks out of the room, slamming the door behind him.

There's silence in Paul's basement for a moment. George looks close to tears. Paul gets up to comfort George, but instead of going to comfort George too, I go up the stairs and see John sitting on the back porch of Paul's house. His shoulders hunched, head bent; a cigarette in his hand. I go to the porch and silently sit down next to him.

'If it were anything but a goddamn car accident, I'd be okay,' he surprises me by speaking first. I have no idea what he's talking about, but I know to wait for him to continue.

'It's like it could've happened to anybody, but it had to happen to her,' he says. His head is in his hands. 'It didn't have to happen. But it did. It's like ... it's like God wanted her to die.'

I hesitate, because John's words bring to my mind a story that I haven't thought of in years.

I think it will help John to hear this, so I begin.

'When I was three years old, I had a little brother. One day, when he was about ten months old, he was riding on a motor cycle in my father's lap.' John's shoulders are tensed, listening. 'There was a kite - you know, a bird of prey - circling overhead. It picked up a snake from a nearby park. A cobra, I think. It dropped the snake, and the snake landed on the motorcycle. It fell off, obviously ... but before it fell, it bit my brother.' Since I was just three, I can tell this story without feeling upset. I don't even remember him. 'Then the kite picked up the cobra and flew away. It was a poisonous snake, and there wasn't anything they could do for my brother.'

John must be wondering why I'm telling him this. 'Afterwards, everyone said that he deserved it,' I say, finding my voice dropping to a whisper. This is the part that upsets me: the injustice. 'They all said that ... the only reason the cobra fell on him was because he must've been bad in his past life, and God was punishing him.' Well, they believed in past lives, most of my family. I pause for a second. 'But that's bullshit.' It is, it's fucking bullshit, saying that he deserved it. Who says that when a baby is killed by a cobra, it's because he _deserves _it? 'Sometimes, it just happens. It doesn't mean it was meant to happen. It just did.' I know that some people believe that your fate is written in a book from the moment you're born - no, from before you're born - and that that's how your life will play out - but I just don't.

'I mean, what are the chances? Nobody wakes up in the morning and thinks, _What if a cobra falls on my head today? What if a drunk cop drives me over? _But it happens, because death happens, and when it does, you just have to go through it.' Am I sounding too harsh? But it's been three months and John needs a wakeup call. A little more gently, I say, 'People die, and people live. You can't stop living, just because somebody else has died.' Erm, that sounds a little confusing, but I'm sure that John has gotten it. 'She wouldn't have wanted you to be so hung up on her.' He's still silent, but it's not an ignoring silence: it's a thinking silence.

Finally, John takes a drag of his cigarette and then he says, 'Thanks. I ... thanks for telling me. I needed that.' His eyes are pinkish and he looks weary, but he no longer looks strained and angry. I smile and a bit of a smile tugs his lips too. Abruptly he gives me a hug, and then he gets up.

I follow John down to the basement again. The boys stop their hushed talking and watch him with wide eyes. John doesn't meet any of their eyes, he just sits down and picks up his guitar. There's silence for a moment. Then, John says, 'On your count, Pete?' His voice isn't apologetic - it's John, he doesn't do apologies - but it's quiet, agreeable. They all look surprised, but don't say anything. I kiss George's head and then sit down. Pete taps his drumsticks together three times and they finish the song. The rest of the practice goes without trouble and by the end of it, John's almost normal.

Not quite, but getting there.

* * *

'Paul, ya look _fine_,' I say for the millionth time.

'My shirt is crumpled,' frets Paul. He tears off the perfectly neat collared shirt and rummages through his cupboard for another. He pulls it on and then anxiously runs his hands through his hair, squinting at the mirror. George and I exchange amused glances and hide our smiles. We're sitting in Paul's room, watching Paul get dressed for his date with Andrea. 'Ya forgot to put on yer makeup, Paulie,' says George earnestly. Paul swings out his arm to whack George's head, but stops midway to check his watch. 'Fuck, it's almost seven!'

'It's six thirty,' I tell Paul soothingly, 'your watch is fast. Relax, won't ya?'

'I can't relax,' moans Paul. He wrings his hands. George smirks. 'Ya can't go on a date looking like yer gonna piss in yer pants,' he says to Paul.

Twenty minutes later, Paul's finally finished putting on cologne, changing his clothes, shining his shoes, moisturizing his hands, and combing his hair. 'Let's go already,' says George impatiently. 'Yer gonna get late!'

'Wait!' exclaims Paul. He dashes into the house and comes back out with a bunch of flowers. 'Now we can go.'


	17. Chapter 17

**A little George-Angie cuteness. :] References to Chapter 1 of Something :) The memory part. A little changed though. **

**Disclaimer: I do not own the Beatles or anything else you might recognize. **

* * *

**Yesterday**

**Chapter Seventeen: And I Love Her**

'And then I kind of just blurted it out, and she looked at me all weirdly like she was gonna say no, but then she said yes!' says Paul happily. His cheeks are flushed and he's smiling the kind of smile I haven't seen properly on his face since his mother died. I think this girl Andrea could be good for him.

'When are you meeting her?' I ask him. We're sitting in my room, on the floor, my art papers spread out in front of me as I try to sort them; him strumming randomly on his guitar.

'She lives in Blackpool,' Paul says, the slight frown wrinkling his perfect eyebrows indicating that even that short distance is too much, 'so I was thinking maybe I'll take her to the Blackpool Ferris wheel for Valentine's Day?'

'That,' I point my black charcoal stick at him, 'is a fabulous idea. But, ya better not get her a heart-shaped box of chocolates,' I roll my eyes jokingly, 'Honestly, we girls are getting a bit bored of the old stuff!'

Paul takes the charcoal stick out of my hand and examines it curiously. 'Oh, yeah?' he says, grinning lightly. 'Whatcha got planned with Georgie? Anything special?' He winks.

'I don't know,' I say. Really, I totally forgot about Valentine's Day - I was more concerned about George's birthday, which is on the twenty-fifth.

'Speaking of which,' Paul reaches into his guitar case and takes out a white envelope. 'Think this is something that might interest you.' He smiles at me mysteriously and puts it on my bed, out of the danger of being swept into the mess of my other papers.

* * *

**A/N: I need you guys to do me a favour here. Open a new tab, go to YouTube, and play _Gotten _by Slash ft. Adam Levine while you read this. It's the song that George sings in this chapter. Please, please, please do it. :) **

The pale moon finds the floor of my room spread with papers and photographs. I draw the curtains over it and check my watch: seven thirty. I need to get this task over with: sorting my papers out.

An hour later, I've stacked everything neatly away except for the white envelope that Paul left on my bed. It's fairly big; I open the flap and let the contents slide out. It's a photograph, a black and white one, of two people: George and me. I don't know when this is from - oh, wait, I do: from a day a month or so ago, when John and George had spent the night at Paul's and Cyn had slept at mine, and we were all walking to school in the morning - art school for John and Cyn - but somehow ended up at Strawberry Fields instead. It's not a photograph I took - either John or Paul or Cyn must've taken it - and in it, neither George nor I are looking at the camera, but we're both smiling, his arms around my waist. I stare at it for a long moment and then I see that there's another copy inside the envelope. I put the one in the envelope into my file of things that cannot ever be thrown away - it includes a drawing made by my three-year-old cousin sister, and a poem I wrote when I was seven about a storm, and a photograph of my old house in India_. _Then I take a pen and try to think of something nice to write to George on the other side of the smooth photographic paper, but everything I thought of sounded cheesy, so I just put it on my desk to give him tomorrow.

It's a weekend night: the unconquerable for an insomniac like me. Of course, I won't be able to sleep till three. And right now, it's what? Eight o'clock. Four hours to my bedtime. Seven hours till sleep.

Which is why, when the phone rings, I pick it up before it's rung for even half a ring.

'Angie?' Paul's voice is hushed, like he's whispering into the phone.

'Yeah?'

'Do ya wanta come over for a sleepover?'

'Bit late, isn't it?'

'Ten thirty. Just come, won't ya?'

I'm a little surprised, since Paul and I haven't slept over at each other's houses for a while. 'Alright, lemme just ask.' I put the receiver on the table and quietly open the door to my parents' bedroom. They're not asleep yet. 'Can I go over to Paul's for a sleepover?' I ask my mother. She brightens when I ask her this, because I know it's her secret hope that I'll marry Paul someday - though she wasn't disappointed when I told her I was dating George - and she says yes, don't sleep too late because there's school tomorrow. I nod and then go back to the phone. 'Paul?' I say into the phone. 'I can come.'

'Okay, don't bother to bring clothes,' says Paul. 'Or anything else, really. But, um ... bring that envelope that I left in your room. The photograph.'

'Huh, Paul? What for?'

'Just do it,' says Paul.

'Say please.'

'Please, Angie?' says Paul sweetly. I giggle into the phone and say, 'Alright then, see ya in a minute!' I grab the photograph of George and me and then leave the house, shutting the door behind me. It's kind of cool out, so I take a light jacket before I leave, heading towards Paul's house.

But when I reach, it's not Paul waiting on the porch: it's George. I look at him questioningly, but he only says, 'Follow me.' We walk to the nearby park; the sky's sort of deep bluish black, inky. Not starry, but there's a beautiful moon: pale and silvery. 'Where are we going, Georgie?' I ask him, but he only says, mysterious and cryptic, 'You'll see.' He leads me to a ring of trees and says, 'Sit down.' I obediently sit on top of a rock. 'Shut your eyes.' I shut them and allow him to put a blindfold around my head; his calloused hands brush the sides of my face as he does. I prick my ears, listening. I hear his feet brushing against the grass as he walks away ... and then comes back. And then I hear the soft, musical thump of his guitar as he sits down in front of me and starts playing.

It's a song that's been my favourite for years. I loved it the first time I heard it. It's the song that best suits my feelings for George.

'_So nice to see your face again, tell me, how long has it been since you've been here? You look so different than before, still the person I adore, frozen with fear ... I'm outta love, but I take it from the past. I'm outta words, but I'm sure it'll never last ...' _George glances at me shyly before he sings my favourite part ... his voice is so beautiful. And he's so sweet. '_I've been saving these last words for, one last miracle, but now I'm not sure, and I can't save you if you don't let me ... you just get me like I've never been gotten before.' _

George leans forward and carefully unties the blindfold. 'George that was ...' I strain to find words to fit the thoughts in my head, but 'beautiful' sounds too fake and glittery to fit George's voice, the emotion he put into the song, even though it wasn't his. Instead, I touch the side of his face gently and kiss him. When I pull away, he's smiling; he rolls onto his back, pulling my hand so I lie next to him. The sky above Liverpool isn't as starry as the sky in the countryside, but just looking at it makes me feel small, though contentedly so. I feel like I haven't let George know how much it means to me, him singing that song for me. 'George?' I whisper, reaching to take his hand. 'Hm?' he says. He brushes my fingers gently, not taking his gaze from the sky. 'I love you.'

George turns slightly, so that he's facing me. He lays something on top of my chest: an orchard. My favourite flower. 'Angie Evans, will you be mine forever?'

I don't say anything, just nod, and he smiles and kisses my forehead.

* * *

**Aw, how adorable is that? :') Thanks for reading! Please review :) -Jen. **


	18. Chapter 18

**Thank you so much for the reviews! :) **

**Disclaimer: I do not own the Beatles or anything else you might recognize. **

* * *

**Yesterday**

**Chapter Eighteen: You Can't Do That**

'Where are you going?'

'George's, it's his birthday.'

My mother frowns. 'I don't want you to hang out with those boys anymore.'

'Why not?' I say, a tad impatient. I told George I'll be there in fifteen minutes. I can't hang around here for long.

'They're Teddy boys,' she says. 'I heard that that John got that girl Cynthia pregnant.'

Whoa, Cyn's pregnant? I haven't seen her in a while. 'I'm going to hang out with _George_, not _John_,' I say, emphasizing their names. 'Don't worry, I'm not going to get influenced or anything.'

'I think you're spending way too much time with him,' says my mother. I feel an uncharacteristic surge of anger.

'You haven't had a problem in the past year that I've been dating him, why is it such a problem now?' I flash back.

'I've been noticing it for a while Anjana, don't think I don't see what you're up to. You watch that attitude now!'

_Watch that attitude. _That does it. 'It's alright for Jude and Sho to show attitude now, isn't it? I'm not going to stop hanging out with my friends just because you pick up some stupid rumour in town!' I snap.

Mom's eyebrows are hiked up to her hairline. Her eyes flash danger zone, but they no longer make me afraid as they did when I was little. 'That's it, you're staying home right now.'

'Because grounding me is so going to break my attitude,' I say sarcastically. 'I'm sixteen years old, for god's sake. Grounding me isn't enough to make me stop talking to my best friends.' I frown. 'I thought you liked Paul, anyway.'

'That was before he became influenced by the likes of John,' says my mother.

'Whatever, mom. I'm going to George's anyway.'

'No, you're not,' she says, dead serious. 'You're not.'

* * *

I sit on my bed with my new acoustic guitar in my lap. It's still got a ribbon around the neck from when my mother and father presented it to me. I carefully untie it and lay it on my desk. Sixteen years old. That's a lot ... And it's been a good birthday, but Angie said she'd come and she hasn't come.

Paul told me that he phoned her and her mother said she's sick. That's strange, in the three years that I've known her, Angie's never been sick, not even a cold. Maybe an occasional migraine, but she wouldn't let that make her miss my birthday ... would she? I play a sad minor chord. This birthday would've been so much better if she were here ...

Tap, tap, tap.

I glance towards my window and to my surprise, I see Angie there. Is this just wishful thinking, or is she really outside my window? And _how _is she hovering out there, seemingly suspended in midair? I jump up and throw open the window. She grins at me, clinging to the branch of the sturdy tree outside my window. She climbs in, brushing a leaf out of her long black hair, and then throws her arms around me and whispers, 'Happy birthday.' She sings softly, '_Happy birthday to you, happy birthday to you, happy birthday, dear Georgie, happy birthday to you.' _

'Thanks, love.' I hug her tightly, smiling into her sweet-smelling hair, not quite believing that she's actually here, and then she draws back. 'I'm sorry I didn't bring your present right now. I wasn't planning on coming at this time,' she adds, giggling.

'That's alright,' I tell her, smiling - I don't care for a gift, I'm just glad she's here. Then I frown as I remember something. 'I thought you were sick.'

'Sick?' She frowns. She doesn't look sick, she looks beautiful, like always. 'I'm not sick. Who said that?'

'Paul said yer mum said that,' I say uncertainly.

Angie's face darkens. 'She said that, did she?' She looks angry for a second, but then appears to disregard it. 'Never mind that.' She shakes her head as though shaking off an annoying fly, and then smiles and leans in to kiss my lips. 'I'm sorry I didn't come earlier.'

I know better than to ask why right now. Instead I grin at her. 'You'll stay the night, won't ya?' I ask anxiously.

I know that Angie doesn't like to lie to her parents often, and that they most definitely wouldn't be okay with her spending the night with me. Which is why I'm surprised when she says yes without hesitation. I think I know what might be upsetting her. 'Does yer mom know yer here?' I ask hesitantly.

'No,' she says, her voice is closed-off like she doesn't want to talk about it.

'Well, I should get ya some clothes,' I say, to change the subject. I'm suddenly self-conscious about my room - it's the first time Angie's been in here, and I wonder if it's too messy. But she doesn't seem to mind, she just sits on the bed and waits as I rummage through my drawers and find a clean t-shirt and the smallest pair of pyjamas I have for her. They're still huge for her, but she takes them anyway and I point out the bathroom for her down the hall. She hesitates again, her dark eyes glancing up and down the hallway. 'Don't worry, my parents are asleep,' I assure her. While she's gone, I dump a bunch of my dirty clothes from the chair into the laundry where they belong, and clear away some of the chord sheets and papers that litter the floor. There's a glass on my desk that's been there for a couple of days, so I quickly dart down to the kitchen and leave it in the sink, and get two glasses and a bottle of water for Angie and me. In my room again, I set them on the desk and change into my night clothes - the most un-holey shirt I have and a clean pair of pyjamas.

And then I hear a door opening, one of the doors next to my room - either my brother's room or my parents' room. And footsteps as they walk down the corridor and knock irritably on the bathroom door, behind which Angie must be frozen, 'Goddammit George, how long are ya going to take?'

* * *

I freeze, staring at the reflection of the door through the mirror. The voice is male, sleepy, irritable. I glance at the doorknob; it's locked, at least. Then I hear George's voice; he says something I can't make out, and then he says to me through the door, 'It's okay, it's just Harry. You can come out.' I fold my clothes and ball them up neatly, glance at my reflection - a black-haired girl wearing clothes far too big for her and a nervous expression stares back. Then I open the door cautiously. George and another, taller, older boy who kind of resembles him stand there. The older boy's eyes widen and then he grins. 'Aww, my Georgie's all grown up,' he says, cuffing George's head. 'Got girls staying in yer room at night, ya naughty boy?

'This is my brother, Harry,' says George, red-faced and embarrassed. To Harry he says, 'This is my girlfriend, Angie.' Then he adds worriedly, 'Are ya gonna tell mom and dad?'

'Nah, don't worry, I'm not gonna rat on ya.' Harry winks at George and disappears into his room. George gives me a reassuring smile, and I go back into the bathroom and finish brushing my teeth, and then I check the dark hallway to make sure it's empty before I dart across into George's room. He's already changed and sitting on the bed under the blankets. There's a new guitar propped on his lap. He's playing it, a little carefully as though getting used to it. 'New guitar?' I say. He grins and nods. He plays a couple of chords, his beautiful capable fingers pressing the strings easily, and then he tenderly sets on the floor leaning against the wall, as carefully as though it's made of glass. He shifts up and pats the space next to him, indicating that I should sit there. I've never been in a boy's bed before, but I try to hide my shyness as I get in next to George. He lies down and I lie down too, and he pulls up the blanket over us. 'Night, love,' he says, and softly kisses my forehead.

'Night, George,' I whisper back. 'Happy birthday.' We lie a few inches apart, but once George reaches over and turns out the light, he shifts closer to me and wraps his arms around my waist. He falls asleep quickly - I can when his breathing becomes slow and even. But I lie awake for a long time, still simmering with anger at my mother's words. She didn't let me leave the house all day; I only managed to sneak out once my parents went to bed. I wonder if they've discovered that I'm gone; they'll be furious, I'm sure. And I'm also pretty sure they'll know exactly where I am - with George. They'll probably think I'm some sort of slut ... I'm sure they'll think I'm not a virgin. (Though I am). My parents sure can be conservative sometimes. One thing I know for sure: their old-fashioned views aren't going to determine what I do one bit. I turn over in George's embrace. He tightens his arms around me and whispers sleepily in my ear, 'Go to sleep, love.'

Because he tells me to, I can.


	19. Chapter 19

**I don't know why I wrote this ... weird chapter ... yeah. :P **

**Disclaimer: I do not own the Beatles or anything else you might recognize. **

* * *

**Yesterday**

**Chapter Nineteen: So Happy Together**

When I wake up, I feel an untraceable sort of happiness. I shift a little and find something restraining me: that's when I locate the source of my happiness, lying beside me in the form of George. His arm is slung around me. Careful not to disturb him, I gently lift his arm and roll away from him. I check the watch on his bedside table - at least two hours till I have to head home, but I don't feel comfortable about going back to sleep, in case I don't wake up in time. The last thing I want to do is get home after my parents discover my empty bed. So I tiptoe down the hallway, sure that George's mum is going to jump up on me any second and demand to know why I'm there - I've never met her and though she sounds like a caring person, I don't think she'd be any happier than my mum to know George and I spent the night together, even if we weren't _doing _anything - and don't breathe normally till I've finished using the bathroom and returned to George's room.

He's still sleeping, curled up on his side, balled-up hands pressed to his chin. In his sleep, his face is utterly peaceful and relaxed, hair falling into his eyes. It's creepy to stare, so I sit in the armchair and pick up a book; I don't want to disturb his sleep.

A little while later George stirs, and I think he's waking up, but then he just turns over, sighs and falls asleep again.

Around six thirty, I realize that I should go home, because my dad's an early riser, and though he won't check my room, I can't risk him seeing me sneak in. Wow, I feel like such a badass. I've always been that girl who's done her homework, does all the chores her mum tells her to, who's quiet and respectful - and here I am, sneaking out from my parent's watchful sight to spend the night in my boyfriend's room. I put the book down and reluctantly get up to go to George's side. Suddenly, looking down at George's sleeping face, I'm overwhelmed by how much I love this boy. This is the kind of thing you don't get twice in a lifetime.

Gently, I shake George's shoulder. He makes a soft sound and burrows into his pillow. 'Geo-orge,' I say softly, shaking his shoulder again. His eyelids flutter, then he raises his hands and rubs his eyes before opening them properly, yawning. It's got to be the cutest thing I've seen, ever. 'George, I gotta go now before my parents wake up,' I whisper. He scrunches his nose, still not fully awake. 'Angie? Where are ya going?'

'I hafta get home before my parents wake up,' I whisper. 'Thanks for letting me stay the night.' I grin at him. 'See ya sometime after school?' George nods sleepily. I kiss his lips and then start to move towards the window, but his hands catch my shirt. 'Angie,' he says, still sleep-fogged. 'I love ya.'

'I love ya too.' I say, warmth rising inside me. I kiss his lips again and then slip out of the window.

I run all the way home, and when I reach my house I pause outside it, listening and watching for signs that my parents are awake. The house is silent. Holding my breath, I hurry silently to the door and take out the spare key I nicked from the hook in my parents' room, where they keep all their keys. I twist it in the lock, praying that my parents aren't on the other side, and let myself in, locking it quietly behind myself.

And almost die when I see Jude standing motionlessly at the other end of the corridor.

He just looks me, wide-eyed. I wait for him to say something, my heart pounding a beat that's louder than Pete's drumkit when he's crashing on all the drums at once. But he just stares at me. 'Are mom and dad awake?' I prompt. Jude's not blinking, it's getting kind of creepy. 'Are you okay?' I ask him harshly. He still doesn't do anything but watch me. I walk up to him and slap his cheek. He doesn't react much, which confirms my suspicion. 'You're stoned,' I realise. 'Jude, what the fuck is the matter with ya? Doin' it right in the house in front of mom and dad?'

'It's okay,' he slurrs. 'They're sleeping.'

'Well, ya better get into yer room till yer normal again.' I drag him roughly by the arm to his room. He pauses halfway to lift a joint to his lips, but I snatch it away and stuff it into my pocket. 'You've had enough of that.' I force him through the doorway of his room and then drop him onto his bed. With a snore, he passes out into a deep sleep. I'm not too worried about him; he'll be okay, I think.

In my room, I flush the joint down the toilet and have a shower, changing into different clothes. I don't think I've ever slept that comfortably before. By the time I'm ready and I go down to the kitchen for breakfast, my parents are having theirs.

I see my mom glance at me warily as I grab a banana from the fruit bowl and take a bite of it. 'Morning, Mum,' I say cheerfully, pouring myself a glass of orange juice.

There's no point fighting right now, because in the end I'll leave home whether she's okay with it or not.

* * *

**Not one of my best chapters I know ... sorry :P I'll try and post another one today to make up for it. Still, review please :) -Jen. **


	20. Chapter 20

**Thanks for the reviews! :) Whoa, twenty chapters already :O These fanfics grow up so fast :') Well, here's a chapter for Paul. :) Haven't done one of those in a while, so I thought I'd throw it in. **

**Disclaimer: I do not own the Beatles or anything else you might recognize. **

* * *

**Yesterday**

**Chapter Twenty: I Don't Know Why She's Riding So High**

My parents are out for dinner, Paul's on a date with Andrea and George has been sick for the past couple of days, so I'm stuck in the house alone this evening.

Oh wait, I'm not alone after all - from the sounds coming from the kitchen, Jude's home too. I creep down to the kitchen just to make sure it's him and not a ghost - yes, I'm scared of ghosts - but it is him. 'You,' I say, poking my finger at his chest. 'I have to ask ya something.'

'What?' he asks, cowering away as though scared.

'How often do ya do it?'

'Do what?' he asks, puzzled.

'Get stoned, stupid.'

'Oh, that. Are ya getting all worked up over _that_? It's just a little fun, now and then,' he says. 'Not anything serious, so don't ya worry little sis.' He's a good enough kid, so I guess I trust that he's not doing it so often that it's harmful. Anyway, I know that Paul, John and Stu don't steer clear of the stuff either. They just do what they please. Oh well, it's not like I'm completely vanilla either … we're all fairly responsible about what we do. I decide to go see George, if he's feeling better. If he's sleeping, I'll just come back. 'I'm going ta see George,' I tell Jude.

'Ooh, does Mum know 'bout this?' says Jude teasingly. I whack his head lightly on my way out.

As I walk towards George's, I cross paths with Paul. He's crying - wait, he's _crying_? I haven't seen him cry since his mum died three years ago. 'Paul, what happened?' I gasp, though I have a pretty good idea.

'She left me,' he chokes, tears running down his red face. He can't get any more words out, so I just hug him real hard 'cos he looks like he needs a hug, and he just melts into my arms. 'Shh, it's okay, Paulie,' I say soothingly, rubbing his back as I might have done to a bawling Nico. 'It's alright. Shh.' Eventually he does quiet down, and I lead him to sit down on the back steps of his house. 'Tell me what happened,' I say gently.

Paul sniffs and says, 'She was with ... another bloke ... tall guy in a leather jacket.' ... so says Paul who stands at least three inches taller than me, wearing a typical Teddy boy black leather jacket. 'We were going to go on a date ... but she just ignored me. Didn't even say anything,' and with that, tears poured from his large, hurt-filled hazel eyes again. The bouquet of flowers in his hands, which I hadn't noticed till now, falls to the ground. He kicks the purple flowers roughly away, suddenly angry. 'Just like that, without any warning! Girls,' he shakes his head.

It's his first _real _girlfriend and first real breakup, so I can see why he's upset. Paul was pretty infatuated with Andrea; in fact, I thought they were completely happy. I even hang out with Andy a lot. I can't imagine what came over her. I guess Paul will just have to get over her though.

He's distraught at the moment though. The tears have turned bitter on his face. 'Paul, if she can't see what a great guy she has, she doesn't deserve you,' I tell him fiercely. 'If you're meant to be with her, it'll work out. And if you're not, you'll find someone better, I promise.'

Paul sniffs and raises his teary hazel eyes to mine. 'Ya think so?'

'Definitely,' I promise. I squeeze his hand. 'Come on. You need a good drink o' something.' I find a beer in his fridge and pour him some in a glass. (What? He's almost eighteen, _and _he's upset right now). 'There ya go.'

I stay with Paul long enough that he looks marginally more cheerful. After a while John and Stu turn up too, so I leave Paul in their care and go on to George's.

* * *

George's mother opens the door. She's a kind-eyed smiling-faced woman, and I've always been comfortable around her. 'Hello, Angie,' she says warmly, pulling me into a hug. 'Here to see George? He was sleeping earlier, but I think he's feeling better now.' I hand her my offering of a box of cookies and she smiles. 'George is always raving about those,' she tells me, pointing to the cookies. 'Says mine aren't a patch on them! I'll just tell him you're here.' After a moment she lets me into his room.

George is sitting in his bed when I go in. He looks a little paler than usual, and his dark hair is a little tousled. 'Hey,' I say, softly in case his head hurts. His face brightens as he smiles. I hug him and kiss his cheek, and then sit on the edge of his bed. 'I just came ta see if you were feeling better,' I say a little worriedly, holding one of his warm hands between mine.

He smiles his crooked smile; it's a little less energetic than usual, probably the effects of his sickness. 'I'm alright, love,' he assures me, his voice a little husky, 'just a bit tired. I don't have fever anymore. I'll be okay by tomorrow.'

I stay with him a little longer, till his eyelids begin to flicker and I decide to let him rest some more. I say goodbye to him and then hurry home.

* * *

Mum and Dad are already home when I reach. They're completely fine with me coming and going as I please, so long as I tell them if I'm coming home late, which is why I'm surprised when my mother says, 'You didn't tell us you were planning to go somewhere.'

'I wasn't planning to go,' I tell her truthfully. 'Paul broke up with his girlfriend and he was upset, so I went to comfort him, and then I went to see George, because he's sick.'

And then I say goodnight and go up to my room before my mother can voice her protests.

* * *

**If you can find the Beatles reference in this chapter, review and tell me and I'll let you give me a suggestion for a twist/character for the story :D I need suggestions, because though I've got the end planned out, I don't want to end the story quite yet. -Jen. **


	21. Chapter 21

**Thanks for the reviews! :) **

**The idea for this chapter was given to me by TheBeatlesMopTops. Thank you for it :D Hope you guys like it! **

**Disclaimer: I do not own the Beatles or anything else you might recognize. **

* * *

**Yesterday**

**Chapter Twenty One: Dirty Little Robin**

The sky is silvery grey, awash with clouds and cool wind. I'm walking home from school, and suddenly someone calls my name from behind. I turn around and see Andrea running towards me. It's been about two weeks since she dumped Paul - _heartlessly _dumped him, for some other Teddy boy. 'Angie,' she says, breathlessly, stopping in front of me. I wait for her to catch her breath, not unfriendly but not making an attempt to help her either - she did hurt my friend, after all. We used to be friends - in fact, Andy was part of our group before she broke up with Paul. Not to mention she icily turned him away every time he tried to talk to her afterward. 'I made a mistake,' she says frankly. 'I shouldn'ta left Paul.'

'What about the other guy, then?' I ask her, lifting one eyebrow. She flinches. 'Jim. He's ... he tried to force me to do things ... that I didn't want to do. I left him, of course.' Andy looks away, frowning. 'I was so stupid ... Paul's so much sweeter, and nicer.' I'm still waiting to see why she's telling me this. 'Do ya think ... do ya think Paul might talk to me still?'

I shrug my shoulders unhelpfully. Paul's still upset that his first proper girlfriend left him. He was never anything but devoted to her. But Andy looks so wretched ... 'You hurt him a lot,' I tell her, straightforwardly. 'He never did anything wrong to ya. I don't think he'd have much reason to talk to ya. But you could try.'

Andy's face lights up like I've given her some amazing words of encouragement. 'Ya think so?'

I don't think so, not really ... 'I don't know.'

* * *

George's POV

'It goes like this,' John says, playing a chord on his guitar, 'and then like _this_ ... and then this.' He plays the last chord of the song with a flourish. 'And we've still gotta think of a bridge,' he adds, looking self-satisfied. 'But it's almost done.' I play the chords he's just played, and he nods in approval.

'How about this for the bridge?' Paul plays a couple of chords on his lefty guitar.

Just then, someone comes down the stairs to the basement of Paul's house, where we're sitting and practicing. Cynthia gets up from John's side and goes to see who it is. Her face goes blank when she sees and she sits down wordlessly.

It's Andrea, Paul's ex-girlfriend. Unexpected. Does this mean she and Paul are back together? Considering he's begged her, _after _she cheated on him, and she's ignored him coldly, and all in all been an absolute bitch to him, I don't think it's likely.

From Paul's expression, I gather they're not. John, Cyn and I assume stony expressions as Andy's eyes flit from face to face. A million emotions surface on Paul's face: hurt, heartbreak, anger, confusion. We-ell, _this _is awkward. It's John who breaks the silence - he can't sit in a silence without breaking it - by saying, 'Look, it's the bird who left Paul for one o' those thugs by the bar.' Trust John to say something like that which makes the situation a million times worse. Abruptly, Paul says, 'What are you doing here?'

'I ... I came to talk to you,' says Andrea in a small voice. Cyn gives a snort of derision from where she sits. She's as protective of Paul as Angie is. She, Angie and Andy were good friends, in fact ... When Paul doesn't reply, Andrea says, 'Can I talk to you outside?'

'He's not going anywhere with you,' answers John loudly. 'Whatever ya got ter say ter him, yeh'll say right here.'

'I was just wondering if ... you wanted to get back together.'

'Get back _together_?' scoffs John. 'Can ya _hear_ that, lads?' Paul's been silent so far, but now he gets up and goes over to where Andy stands. 'I don't think that's a good idea,' he says, not unkindly. 'I think it would be best if you left.' Andy hesitates, then nods and leaves. Paul returns to his seat, picking up his guitar. 'Shall we play the song through once, John?' he says. This is an indication that we don't talk about what just happened, but obviously John doesn't get it. 'The _nerve _of her!' he explodes, shaking his head. 'After everything she did-'

'John,' interrupts Paul. 'Let's just forget it, yeah?'

John looks surprised, but he nods and picks up his guitar, though he does so with difficulty. He's the kind of friend who'll beat the shit out of anyone who bothers you. He couldn't have hurt Andy - she's a girl - but he was pretty mad at her for being such a bitch to Paul. That's the kind of friend who sticks with you through everything: the kind you don't ever let go.

* * *

'Will ya look at that crowd?' says Paul happily, stowing his guitar away. It's after another performance of the Quarrymen - I swear our crowds are growing bigger and bigger.

I get down from the stage, leaving my guitar backstage to pick up later. People clap me on the back, telling me how great our show was - it's the awesomest feeling ever, people saying they like your music. I look around for Angie, but I can't see her ... where is she? I wander through the crowd a bit, but she's not there. I decide to get a drink and maybe she'll see me. After all, how will she be able to find me if I keep moving around?

After a drink, and talking to some random people, I think I see a black haired girl leaving the club ... is that her? I jump up and leave the club too. Outside, in the street, there are people hanging around ... I see somebody turning into the alleyway. I run after and look into the alley - it's kind of dark, but there's nobody there.

'George.'

It's Andy. I groan inwardly, wishing she'll just go away.

For the past week, she's been trailing Paul almost constantly, trying to get him to talk to her. He tells her politely each time that he doesn't want to get back together with her, but she can't accept that answer. I wouldn't care about it, but she's taken to trailing me and John, trying to get us to convince Paul. Really, I had no problem with her earlier - we were all friends - but she was extremely cheap to Paul and I've lost most of my respect for her. It's pretty annoying, too.

... She's not going away.

_Noooo. _

'Yeah?' I say, turning around and trying to sound pleasant.

'You were really good on stage today.'

Surprise. 'Thanks,' I say. I'm wondering if it's okay to go yet ... would that be rude?

'So, have you guys written any new songs lately?'

'No, not really.'

'None?'

'No.' It's a lie, but I really don't want to talk to her ...

'Oh. So, how old were you when you started playing guitar?'

Stifling a groan, I answer Andrea's questions as shortly as I can. I can't see a single person in sight that I know - they've all vanished, only strangers stand around me. Which means I can't even pretend like I need to talk to one of them. I've just noticed that she's been edging slowly closer to me ... what is she doing? 'You're such an amazing guitarist, George,' she breathes, so close I can smell the alcohol on her breath. I can see the waxy lipstick layered heavily on her lips - I can't imagine it's meant to look seductive. This feels wrong. I clear my throat and edge away. 'Seriously. Nobody gives you enough _credit_,' she croons, leaning in.

'Uh, thanks.' I turn to face her to tell her that I need to use the bathroom, or get my guitar, or talk to someone - _anything _but this - and before I know it, she's got her arms around my neck. Before her lips can land on mine, I wrench myself away. 'Get off me.' I turn to walk, but my feet get twisted up in the confined space and I land on top of her.

Um. This is kind of awkward. 'Stay,' breathes Andy, but her seductive expression only repels me. I start to get up when someone says, 'George?'

It's Angie.

Before I can explain myself, she's gone.

* * *

**Once again, thanks to TheBeatlesMopTops :) Please review! -Jen. **


	22. Chapter 22

***Gasp* Andy is such a bitch, right? TRYING TO STEAL MY GEORGE. No way. **

**Thank you for the reviews! :) **

**Disclaimer: I do not own the Beatles or anything else you might recognize. **

* * *

**Yesterday**

**Chapter Twenty Two: Nowhere Girl**

'Angie!' I call desperately, disentangling myself from Andrea and struggling to my feet. I don't even spare Andy a glance before I run after Angie. I can't see her anywhere; she's not standing in the street, and I know she wouldn't've gone back into the Cavern Club. I can feel my heart sinking as I don't see her anywhere.

* * *

Half an hour later, there still isn't a sign of her anywhere. I head back to the Cavern Club. Maybe she's in there? The crowd has only thinned a little bit in this late hour. I spot Paul standing by the bar, talking to the drummer of that other skiffle group - what was it? - Rory Storm and the Hurricanes. 'Paul!' I exclaim, shaking the bassist. 'Have ya seen Angie?'

'No-o-o,' he says, frowning. 'Wasn't she with you?'

'No!' I yell. Frustrated, I tell him everything that happened. Paul's expression goes from surprised to disgusted. 'Little slut,' he spits. 'Who does she think she is -'

'Forget her! I just hafta find Angie!' I shout. 'I've bin looking for _ages _and I can't fucking find her.'

'Whoa, Georgie, chill out. We'll find her, okay?' Paul's calmness relaxes me a little and we methodically search the large, dimly lit room. I keep my eyes strained for her slender frame and long dark hair, but I can't find her in all the drunk people dancing here ... 'Paul, she's not here,' I wail desolately. Paul nods calmly, still completely chilled out. 'Maybe she's gone home. Wanta check there?' he asks, as though talking to a child. I nod. We walk to her house in the darkness, lugging guitar cases. There's no light in her window. Cautiously, I ring the doorbell, thanking my lucky stars that it's her brother, Jude, who opens the door and not her parents. He lets us up to her room without asking too many questions. He's a cool guy, Jude.

'She might be sleeping,' he says. 'She came home a while ago. I think she was kinda upset.'

Slowly, I open the door. There's one light on in the room. Angie is lying on her bed, her eyes shut. Her hair falls in her face, covering it. I reach out to brush it away, but Paul catches my hand. 'She'll wake up,' he whispers. 'Come on. Ya better come back tomorrow.'

With a heavy heart, I close the door and head home. Sleep isn't going to come easy, knowing that she's mad at me.

* * *

All day, I've been distracted as I move through classes in school. I don't have any idea what the teacher's talking about. I don't even cover my books with doodles of guitars and motorcycles as I normally do. The pressure of knowing that Angie thinks I've been cheating on her - with good reason - is constantly on my head.

After school, I head straight to her house, but her brother informs me that she's not home and he doesn't know where she is. Groaning, I go over to Paul's to see if he knows where Angie might be. I find him sitting in his bedroom, playing his guitar. 'Looking for Angie, are ya?' he says, without looking up. 'Yeah. Have ya seen her?'

'I went over a little earlier,' he says. 'I think she's not angry, just hurt.' He looks up. 'You gotta set this straight now, Geo, or you're gonna loose that girl. And that,' he pokes my chest, 'would not be good for you, cause you ain't gonna find another one like her.'

Well, _duh_. Doesn't he know I know that? But Paul's words still send a chill through me, because I can't imagine a world like that, in which Angie's not in my life. 'Do ya know where she is?'

'Nope, but you better find her soon.'

* * *

... except I don't find her, certainly not anytime soon. My legs ache because I've walked so much - I must've scored through the whole of Liverpool by now. I've checked John's, Cyn's, Stu's, Pete's, all the cafés we sometimes visit, all our hangout places, and she's in none. Right now I'm walking through some neighbourhood - I don't even know why I'm looking for her here - and I see a girl on a pink bicycle standing in front of a gate. She looks vaguely familiar, though blonde hair and blue eyes are fairly common. Then I remember who she is - she's a girl from Angie's school. 'Marcia?' I say hesitantly - is that her name?

The girl's slightly chubby face fills with indignation. '_Marilyn_, not _Marcia_,' she huffs. 'And you're George, Angie's boyfriend.'

'That's right,' I say, slightly taken aback. Marilyn speaks like she's trying to punch me with her words. 'Um, would you happen to know where Angie is?'

'No. Lost her, have you?'

I look sharply at the blonde-haired girl and see humour in her eyes. 'Don't look so sad,' she says.

I sigh heavily. 'It's just, she's kind of mad at me right now, so I kind of _have _lost her,' I tell her. 'Oh. What did you do?' asks Marilyn. No harm in telling her, I guess. She might have some better advice than Paul did. So I tell her the whole story, while she listens attentively, leaning on her pink bicycle. When I'm done, she raises her eyebrows. 'Well, that's a fine kettle of fish!' she exclaims.

Umm, kettle of fish? I skim over that. 'Yes, but I need _help_. I don't know what to do! I can't find her anywhere.'

'Well, you obviously won't achieve anything till you find her,' states Marilyn. 'You better find her. And explain everything. You weren't _actually _cheating on her, were you? I mean, you weren't really going to let that Andy girl kiss you, right?'

'Of course not!' I say indignantly.

'You just have to explain it to her,' Marilyn tells me. 'That's all ya gotta do. Really, you're getting hyper over _nothing_. Making a huge fuss. You don't even know that she's mad, considering you haven't spoken to her. She could just be busy.'

Hmm, that is true. I didn't think of that. 'Thanks!' I say, my determination to find Angie renewed.

'Well, what're you waiting for? Go on,' says Marilyn, giving me a little push. 'Go find her.'

And then it strikes me; I think I know where she might be. I run all the way there - a good twenty-minute distance walking. It takes me a second to spot her lone figure looking over the dock wall to the dark stretch of water beyond. She loves that: the expanse of water. I've seen her gazing at it so many times, taking pictures of it, drawing it.

'Angie,' I gasp. I'd planned out what to say to her, but I didn't think about the time I'd take to catch my breath - because I'm completely winded. Another girl might've stalked away in the time it takes me to catch my breath, but Angie only spares me one long look before turning her face back over the dock wall. 'Angie,' I say, this time my voice isn't breathless.

'Yeah?'

The fact that she responded to me surprises me. She's not the first girlfriend I've had - though she's the one I've been with longest - and I've had enough experience to know that when they think you're cheating on them, they won't even look your way till you get on your knees and beg. But she responds so simply, so normally, that it completely throws me off my feet. The speech I'd prepared vaporizes on my lips. So instead I say the only thing I can that can help the situation: 'I'm sorry.'

Angie turns to face me, the faint light from the moon outlines her cheekbones and large eyes. 'You don't have to be sorry,' she says softly. 'You can do whatever you want to. I don't own you.'

'But you do,' I say, desperately. 'I'm yours!' The fact that she doesn't know that completely makes my heart sink. I forget all my words; my mouth is empty. Angie says, 'I don't want to hold you back. I don't want to make you feel like you can't do things just because of me. I hate that. I hate it when there are all these ... all these rules you have to follow because other people say so. I just didn't think you'd do that, that's all.'

I can't believe the words that come out of her mouth: doesn't she _know _that she'd never, ever hold me back? That I don't care about any rules, so long as I'm with her? 'Angie, listen ter me,' I say, grabbing her hands. She doesn't wrench them away, but they remain limp in mine. 'I wasn't cheating on you. She came onto me, Andy came onto me, I didn't come onto her! And she was standing real close, so when I tried to get away, I tripped, and then -' the words pour out so fast I don't even know if she understands what I'm saying. 'I'd never, ever cheat on you. Especially not with _her_. I didn't do anything with her, I swear.' Angie stops me, holding up one hand. 'That's really all that happened?'

'Really,' I say truthfully.

She contemplates this for a second, and then smiles. 'Okay.'

I smile back, so wide it hurts, and take her into my arms. Suddenly, everything's okay. It's sort of overwhelming, in an amazing way. I lean into her, and then hesitate. 'Can I kiss you?' She lets out a little laugh and leans in the rest of the way to press her lips to mine. Wow, for a second there I thought I'd never be able to do this again ... I'm so relieved and happy. When she pulls away, I rest my forehead on hers and smile.

Everything's okay.

* * *

**If you can find one of the two Beatles references in this chapter, tell me your guess in a review or PM it to me, and I'll let you put in an idea/character/suggestion for the story. :) -Jen. **


	23. Chapter 23

**Thanks for the reviews :) I'm sorry I haven't updated in a while. I'm still trying to regularly update four stories, but it's kinda hard :P **

**Disclaimer: I do not own the Beatles or anything else you might recognize. **

* * *

**Yesterday**

**Chapter Twenty Three: It Won't Be Long**

It's been a year since my sister Sho last visited - more than, because it's October - and she's coming again today. She's flying into London and taking a train from there to here. I have to go and receive her from the station.

I stand on the windy platform, shivering slightly: trains have always creeped me out. Mostly because I read a creepy story about a ghost train when I was five, and then about trains full of dead people returning to the border after partition. The tracks begin to hum, and far away the howl of the train reaches my ears - definitely creepy. I hate that sound. I wrap my arms around myself and stand my ground as the platform shakes and sways under my feet - or appears to - and the train hurtles into the station.

A stream of people pour out of the doors and I wait for my sister, Sho's, head to appear. 'Sho!' I yell, throwing my arms around her. She hugs me too, and then I take one of her two bags. 'How was the journey?'

'Tiring,' she admits, smiling. 'How've things been around home?'

'Good. And in New York?'

She begins to tell me everything she's been doing, and I listen, feeling a twinge of envy. She lives such a full life out there. I can't let myself stay in drab Liverpool forever. At least not once Paul, John, George, Stu and Pete leave - because they surely will, at the rate their crowds are growing.

At night, when I've set out a makeshift bed for myself on the floor - Sho will be taking my bed - I look up to see if she's still awake. She is. 'Sho?' I say tentatively.

'Yeah?'

'Do you think ... maybe Mom and Dad will let me go to New York? I want to go to art college.'

Sho sits up. 'Of course they will, why wouldn't they?'

'That's what I've been asking,' I say darkly, and tell her the arguments that took place every time I tried to convince them. Sho frowns. 'That's not right,' she says. 'That's ...' she trails off thoughtfully. 'When does your school finish?'

'Last working day's in December and then I'll be free.'

'I'm visiting in January,' she says. 'Maybe ... maybe you could come with me then. You don't need their permission, you know. You're grown up enough to decide for yourself.'

'I don't know,' I whisper, unsure.

'Angie, you've got talent and it's going to go to waste over here,' says Sho bluntly. 'They'll accept it once you've gone. They only accepted me leaving when I booked the tickets.'

'If I try to book a ticket to ride, they'll find out and stop me.'

'No, they won't. We won't tell them.'

And then, sitting there in the darkness and listening to the confidence in my older sister's voice, I suddenly feel brave. This is _my _future, not my parents'.

'I think,' I say slowly, 'I think that is exactly what I will do.'

* * *

'Do you know where the boys have disappeared to?' Cynthia asks me. I shake my head - the crowds that accompany their gigs now are so big, that I don't have a chance of spotting them there. 'Come on, let's check backstage,' she suggests. I follow her up the stairs to the small backstage area and then she stops abruptly in the doorway. She moves to the side a little so that I can see into the little room - John, Paul, Stu, Pete and George are talking to a man dressed in a suit, complete with a tie, neatly combed hair and well-polished shoes. In their leather jackets and quiffed hair that's a little awry from performing, I can tell that the boys are intimidated by him. But as they talk, looks of delight spread on all their faces. The man shakes hands with all of them and departs.

'Guess what!' explodes Paul as soon as the well-dressed man is gone.

'What?' I say curiously, smiling at his enthusiasm.

'George tell her.'

'Alright,' says George, grinning, but John beats him to it, yelling, 'We got signed, and we're going to Hamburg!'

I blink at them, and then grin. I throw my arms around John, saying, 'That's great! You've waited so long for this.' Then I hug the rest of the boys, as they jump up and down, high-fiving each other ecstatically. 'When? For how long?''

'For as long as six weeks,' says George, his eyes shining, 'but maybe longer.'

I beam and tell them how glad I am for them, but there's just one thing that's holding me isn't the right moment to bring it up though. I can tell him later.

'I think,' announces John, 'a celebration is in order.'

I walk back home with my head pleasantly fuzzy with alcohol. Not enough that I'm tipsy, just enough to give me a warm buzz. George walks me home, his arm around me. He's so happy - I can see it in his smile. The Quarrymen's talents are finally being recognized. Of course, he's not bothered that he's going away for six whole months - and nor would I be, if I didn't know that it wasn't really six months, that by the time he comes back I'll be gone. They'll be gone in two weeks. And that is a hell of a lot shorter than from October to January. 'George?' I say hesitantly.

'Yes, love?'

'I ...' I look into his bright, inquisitive eyes. I can't do this. 'I'm so glad for you.'

In reply, George spins me around and presses his mouth to mine. Suddenly it occurs to me that our kisses our numbered. Because one day, we'll both part ways and go to the opposite ends of the earth. So I wrap my arms around him and pull him closer and kiss him for all I'm worth. Surprised and pleased, he kisses me back, completely oblivious that in two weeks this will be over.

Two weeks won't be long.

* * *

**I'll be really disappointed if you didn't find my Beatles references! Review and tell me if you did :) Actually, review even if you didn't :P **

**The story is going to end soon. Those of you who've read Something - you know what happens :D -Jen. **


	24. Chapter 24

**Thank you for all the reviews! :) **

**Disclaimer: I do not own the Beatles or anything else you might recognize. **

* * *

**Yesterday**

**Chapter Twenty Four: I Want You**

It's going to rain.

That's my only consolation for the news that I'm about to deliver. I hate myself for this. Curse the feminist in me, because wouldn't it all be easier if I had an unambitious, simple future as a housewife planned out? Then I could marry George and settle down happily with a billion babies to look after and never, ever forgive myself.

I'm a strong girl, I can deal with this.

And I can, I know that. It's just ... I don't want to. Who would? Break up with _the _perfectest boyfriend ever? I'm not saying that George is perfect - it would be almost boring to date someone that flawless - but he is perfect for _me_. Not for any other girl. I don't believe that anyone else could truly appreciate him and love every bit of him the way I do. And I don't believe anyone will ever love me as much as he does again. Because this kind of thing - the thing that some people might call True Love, or Fate - you don't get it twice. It's a once-in-a-lifetime take-it-or-leave-it thing. It doesn't make reappearances.

I look up at the sky; it's grey and cloudy, the wind heavy with the scent of rain. I catch a flying strand of my hair and push it behind my ear as George and I walk together. I wrack my brain, trying to thing of how to tell him. The inevitable news. I glance at him sideways: he's so happy, a smile on his face, humming one of their new songs - The Beatles, they've renamed themselves - and I don't want to make him sad by telling him. But I have to. 'George?' I say tentatively, reaching for his hand and sliding my fingers into it. He gives them a squeeze.

'Yes, love?' he says.

I can't do this. This conversation is a ditto-copy of my attempt to tell him two nights ago. 'I'm so glad the band finally got signed,' I say instead. He turns to face me, grinning. 'I know!' he says excitedly. 'It's been ages. And we'll finally start recording, and playing big gigs ...' he trails off, his eyes faraway in Hamburg already. 'I'll miss you,' I mumble, looking away. _More than you'll ever know. _

'I'll miss you too, love,' says George. He kisses my forehead, and we continue walking. 'I'll be back before you know it.'

I steel myself. 'George, I'm going to New York,' I say, throwing the words out of my mouth before they can linger. 'I won't be here when you come back.'

He looks at me. 'How long are you going to be in New York?' he asks slowly. But he knows the answer. I've talked to him about this before.

'I don't know. I'm going to get a job there, and maybe go to art college once I have enough money.'

He stops and pulls me around to face him, and stares at me desolately. 'But, that means you won't be living in Liverpool anymore,' he says, aghast.

'I know,' I whisper.

George continues to stare at me. He opens his mouth to say something, but apparently can't find words, and so shuts it. 'I'll visit, sometimes,' I say, in a desperate attempt to make him feel better: I can't stand seeing him upset. My own sadness doubles when I see the unhappy look in his eyes. 'And I'm not leaving till January - I'll still be here when you leave for Hamburg.'

'But how can we be together, if you live in New York and I live here?'

That, that question, is the one I've been trying _oh _so hard not to voice, and there he's said it straight out and I'm not one to cry but tears are pricking my eyes. 'I don't know,' I answer. And I don't know. I don't know how we can be together, only that I don't see myself with anyone but George, and that I have to go to New York, because I've got no career in Liverpool. I've put thought into this decision - I want to stop being so damned _dependent _on my parents. And I want to do art. There's no scope for that in Liverpool.

George just looks at me, his beautiful eyes searching me for answers that I don't have. He wipes the tear on my cheek with his thumb - he's never seen me cry before - and murmurs, 'Don't worry, we'll find away.'

* * *

'Hello?' I pick up the telephone and press the receiver to my ear.

'Angie?' George's quiet voice reaches me from the other end. 'Can I come over?' I glance at the clock on the wall. It's nine thirty. That means that he wants to spend the night, but my parents are home and I can't risk that. 'My parents are home right now,' I whisper into the phone, so that they can't here.

'Oh,' he says, sounding disappointed. 'Can you come over here then?'

'I can tell them I'm staying over at Cyn's and come to your house.'

'Okay,' he says. 'Bye,' I say, and hang up. I dial Cynthia's number. We've grown a lot closer since she discovered that she's pregnant with John's baby, and then secretly went to the doctor to get her an abortion. That was a couple of weeks ago; John doesn't even know. She picks up the phone. 'Hello?'

'Cyn? Do ya think you could cover for me?' I ask her hesitantly. She chuckles into the phone, 'Sure, love.' Then she sobers, because she knows it's the last week I can spend with George and after that we won't see each other for a long, long, long time.

'Mom? Can I spend the night at Cyn's?' My mother approves of me spending time with other girls, since she thinks that I spend way too much time with George and Paul. Not that I care. 'Of course,' she says. I stuff some night clothes into a bag with my toothbrush and hairbrush and then slip my feet into shoes. It's lateish, but George's house isn't far and suburban Liverpool is far safer than the streets of New York will be. I should get used to it.

George's parents have gone to visit his grandparents, he mentioned, a few days ago - so I ring the doorbell and cross my fingers, hoping that his mother won't appear in the doorway. She doesn't - Paul is the one who opens the door, to my surprise. He winks at me and grins, 'Hey Ange,' and then turns to go.

'Paul,' I say, grabbing his shoulder. I hug him hard. 'I'll miss you when you go.'

'I'll miss you too.' He chuckles, rubbing my back, 'You aren't going to go all emotional on me, are ya?'

'Don't worry,' I laugh, pushing him away. 'See ya.'

I go on upstairs to George's room. He sits on his bed, guitar on his lap. That's a fairly typical position for him, I've noticed. He looks up at me. 'Hey,' he says, smiling. 'Hi,' I say. I sit cross-legged at the foot of the bed. 'We're going to take a train to someplace and then a ship,' he says. 'Will you come see me - us - off?'

Did he just ask me if I was going to see them off? 'No,' I say, keeping my face straight. 'In fact I just thought I'd say goodbye right now. You know, I've got a busy week ahead, don't know if I can spare any time ...' I get off his bed and wiggle my fingers at him, and begin to walk to the door, struggling to keep a straight face at his eyes, which have become perfectly round with shock.

'Hey, you're not going anywhere!' George jumps off the bed and grabs my arm, pulling me back. I finally let my straight face slide off and giggle. 'You,' I tell him, poking his chest with my finger, 'are so stupid sometimes. Did ya really think I wouldn't come see you off? And did ya really think I was gonna say goodbye right now? Cause if ya did, ya really are blind, George Harrison!'

'Hey, watch who ya call stupid!' George exclaims. I see the mischievous glint in his eye a second before he attacks, but I'm not prepared enough to fend of his fingers, which mercilessly tickle me. I gasp for breath, struggling away, and he follows me, till I reach the bed and it knocks my legs out from under me. I find myself lying on my back with George on top of me; he re-positions himself so that we're face to face, and I say, 'I take it back, you're not stupid! You're the smartest boy I know. Just don't do that again.'

George grins. 'That sounds better,' he whispers, and then his lips capture mine. His hands move down my arms to my sides, and I feel his rough calloused fingertips tracing the edge of my shirt. He deepens the kiss, his tongue sliding between my lips. There was a time I would've stopped him there, unsure about moving forward, but now we don't have that kind of time anymore. So I give myself to him completely and kiss him heatedly back. He breaks away for a second, breathing hard, and I help him pull his t-shirt over his head. 'Wait,' he whispers, and untangles his arms from around me. He gets up and for a second I worry that he's leaving, but he just shuts the door - that's right, his brother is in the next room - and then turns out the lights. In the darkness I see his faintly lit form come back to me and he kisses me again, this time his lips trail from my mouth down my jawline to my neck. He breaks away again, long enough to ask breathlessly, 'Are you sure?' I think for a second, but it doesn't take me long to decide. We won't ever be together again, most likely, even though I like to pretend differently to make myself feel better.

Which is exactly the reason _not _to do this, but I'm not thinking very straight right now. Only of how much I love George and how badly I want him.

So I let my eyes meet George's bright, excited ones and say, 'I couldn't be surer.'

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**They're both seventeen, so I figured it's okay. And also I never included their first time in Something, so I thought I should put it in here. Hope you guys liked it :) As always, review! -Jen. **


	25. Chapter 25

**Thanks for the reviews! :) **

**Disclaimer: I do not own the Beatles or anything else you might recognize. **

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**Yesterday**

**Chapter Twenty Five: Forever and Forever**

****Angie's POV

I'm lying in an extremely comfortable position, and when I wake up, I don't need to cast my mind about to remember what I'm doing in this bed: I don't think anything could ever make me forget, not even the best sleep I've ever had in my life.

I'm lying on my side, and George lies next to me, his chest pressed against my shoulders and arms around my torso. His deep, even breathing tells me he's still fast asleep, but now that I'm awake, I know I won't be able to sleep easily, and if I keep fidgeting George will wake up too. So after a moment of lying in George's warm arms, I carefully lift his hand and move, very slowly, so that I don't wake him up. He just makes a noise in his sleep and shifts to accommodate the space I've left next to him. Then, crouched on the floor, I'm suddenly aware of the fact that I'm not wearing anything. George's eyes are shut, however, so I quickly grab my clothes and wear them. Then I decide to go to the bathroom, because I need a second alone to think. Even if George is sleeping like a baby, I can't think properly in his presence.

So I grab my bag from where I left it on his chair, and silently let myself out of his room into the bathroom. Since his parents aren't home tonight, there's no danger of them finding me, but I lock the door anyway, and flick on the light once I'm inside. Then I turn around to the mirror and survey myself.

The fact that I just lost my virginity hasn't left a single sign of itself on me. I search my face, but it's the same face - the girl with caramel-coloured skin, black hair and brown eyes who looks back at me looks no different than she did a few hours ago. And, strangely, I don't feel any different either. Happier. Maturer? I don't know. But it's not something that overwhelms me: it's not life-changing, it's not ... it's not a big deal. I can imagine what my mother would say - even what some of my friends would say - they'd be horrified with the prospect of it, but I'm seventeen, in two months I'll be living on my own. I don't think that seventeen is too young.

And, of course, the only thing this does to my relationship with George is strengthen it.

... so that it's even harder to break when he has to leave.

But I don't regret last night. And it doesn't make sense to dwell on these thoughts, so I just change into some clean clothes and finish using the bathroom, and slip back into George's room.

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George's POV

I open my eyes and reach up to push my hair away from them - which is when I see that I'm not wearing clothes and in one spiralling moment I remember last night.

Every time she kissed me, every time she touched me, I can only remember wanting more of it. Where is Angie now? I sit up - her shoes are next to the door, but she's not here. I take the opportunity to slide my boxers on again and then lie back down. It's three in the morning. Where did that girl go? She must have gone to the bathroom. She wouldn't leave her shoes here if she was going home. I shut my eyes.

Then I wake up again as the mattress shifts ever so slightly. Angie crawls back in, lying down next to me. I rub the bleariness out of my eyes and prop myself up on one elbow to smile at her. She smiles too, a little shyly. The shyness in her eyes reminds me of how she was when we first met: quiet, reserved, like a shrinking violet. That suddenly seems like it happened yesterday, Paul introducing me to her. And ... in a few days ... we can't waste a single moment. Sleeping, something I generally can't object to, seems bland and boring. 'Angie,' I say suddenly. 'Let's go out and do something.'

She blinks at me. 'Okay.' This is why I love her. Unquestioningly ready to do anything. I get out of the bed and pull on some clothes over my boxers. Angie buries her face in my pillows to give me privacy. Then I put on my shoes and she slips her feet into hers, and we get out of the house. She follows me curiously to the car and I drive randomly down the streets, not sure of where I'm going till we reach the docks. This is an abandoned part of the dockside - there are no boats tied up here. I park along the wall and we get out.

We sit on the wall, dangling our legs over the water, and it's pleasantly chilly but Angie's not wearing a jacket: she must be cold. That's okay, because I can keep her warm. I put my arm around her shoulders. For a moment there's silence filled only with the sound of water lapping against the wall. 'Let's get married,' I say randomly.

'Okay,' says Angie, lacing her fingers with mine. 'And we can get a dog.'

'Definitely, we have to get a dog,' I agree.

'We can paint our house in rainbow colours.'

'And hang stars from our windows'

'And we can kill all the clocks, because then we'll have forever together.'

How I wish we could really do that. But there's this one little bitch that comes to ruin everyone's life: Life. Yep. I twist a strand of her hair in my fingers. 'Someday,' I tell her softly.

She turns her face to look into my eyes. 'Promise, George? Someday we can get married? Even if it's in a million years.'

It's not the innocence and naivety of teenage love that makes me answer wholly and truthfully and sincerely - it's knowing that _this, _a forever of _this_, is what I want. 'I promise.' I lean in and softly kiss her.

'Okay,' she says, a soft smile on her face. We sit there, staring at the black water for a while. Then I pull her around and kiss her, and then jump off the wall and hold my hand out to her to follow.

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**What do you think? Ready to end this story soon? -Jen. **


	26. Chapter 26

**Yesterday**

**Chapter Twenty Six**

The train whistles as it rushes past the platform. The ground sways beneath my feet. If my head wasn't so full of the thought of George leaving, I might have thought of my old fear of trains, but right now the thought barely forms in my mind. It's slightly chilly this morning, and this time George's warm arms won't be there to wrap around my shoulders to keep me warm, at least not on the way back. So I remembered to bring a jacket. It's an old worn hoodie, one that used to belong to Jude and that I wore endlessly throughout the winter when I was nine or ten. It got so faded and worn that I had to stop wearing it, but I've worn it today; it's somewhat comforting, curling my fingers inside the fraying cuffs to keep them from the cold. George's hand slips around one of mine and I grip it, savouring the feeling of his warm calloused fingers wrapped around one of mine.

Paul, John, Stu and Pete stand in front of us, baggage at their feet, clad properly in traveling clothes. John and Stu's girlfriends - Cynthia and Layla - are here to see them off too, as is Klaus, one of their friends from college; all their families said goodbye to them before they left home. The train hurling through the station doesn't stop in front of us. We all watch it pass.

'That's not the one, is it?' asks Paul anxiously, checking his watch.

'No, it's not due for twenty minutes yet,' says John, 'Relax, Macca.' The Beatles - that is their new name - are going to take a train to London and a ship from there to Hamburg.

'Angie, will you come out with me for a sec?' asks George, cocking his head. I nod and follow him to a secluded corner of the station, away from the rest of them so that we can have our privacy. _Don't cry_, I tell myself.

'George,' I say, because I know what he's going to say, I can see it on his face, and I know that I have to tell him the truth and wipe away any delusional hopes he has, for his own good. He can't keep hoping that we'll meet each other in a few months - if that were true, I could even bear with him having to be alone all that time. But the truth is that we won't be seeing each other for a long time. 'George, you have to know that we're not going to see each other for a long time, probably not for a few years. I'm going to New York to make my career, and you're part of a touring band.'

'Angie, we can still ...' George begins to say, but I cut him off. 'It's not going to work,' I say, hating myself for saying it. 'We can't stay together.'

'But ... I love you,' says George, his eyes turning glassy.

'I love you too,' I say, there's nothing no more truthful thing in the world. 'But we're not going to be able to see each other for a while now. We'll just be wasting our time waiting.'

George nods. 'So ... this is it.' He puts his arms around me and we hug each other for a long time, and I breathe in his leather-jacket-smoke-cologne-and-George-scent, locking the memory in a cage in my mind so that it won't ever vanish. I memorize the feeling of his arms wrapped around me, secure and steady and warm. I may have nothing but a memory to relive this feeling for a long time, years maybe. When he slackens his arms from around me, I only reluctantly draw back and he places one last kiss on my lips. We walk back to the platform in silence, and he boards the train. I hug Paul goodbye, promise him that I'll write and that we'll stay in touch and that he should have the time of his life in Hamburg, because he'll be famous someday. I hug the rest of the boys too, but George's last kiss still tingles on my lips, fresh and raw as the first kiss he placed there just heartbeats ago.

Then I watch the train slide away, and feel my heart wrench out and leave with him.

**THE END**


	27. Chapter 27

**Hahaha I FOOLED YOU you thought that was the end :'D I wouldn't do that! Well if you have read Something, you'll know that this is not the full story of George and Angie's romance. That's in Something, so go check that out when you're done with this. But this is just the ending thingy for Yesterday. I hope you like it. :) **

**Disclaimer: I do not own the Beatles or anything else you might recognize. **

* * *

**NOTE: This chapter takes place many, many years later, towards the end of the Beatles. **

**EPILOGUE**

It's sometime between midnight and dawn, that time in which, as a child, Angie believed that the nighttime creatures walked. Fairies and shadow warriors and witches and ogres - things that belonged in fairytales. But, she muses, isn't her life like something out of a fairytale book? For here she is, after so many years, together with the single person she loves most in the world, no, in the universe. She leans back against the headboard of the bed and watches him: he's curled up by her side, a position she's watched him in so many times, but suddenly, watching his eyelids closed over what she _knows _are the most beautiful, soulful eyes she's ever seen, his lips pressed together in a serene pout, his bare chest rising and falling as he breathes, she's suddenly overwhelmed with wonder.

Wonder that that romance, which begun when they were so much younger, never died really, just waited till they could carry it on. But what they have today, wouldn't be this beautiful, if it had been exactly the same yesterday. That they separated and reunited so many times over the years has only strengthened their relationship, given them so much more to love. And this time she knows it's final - this time there'll be no leaving, no goodbyes.

Angie reaches out and gently strokes his cheek, it's velvety soft under her fingers: his eyelashes flutter and then he opens his eyes. 'What are you doing?' he murmurs sleepily, a little contented smile on his face.

'Just thinking,' she whispers, kissing his forehead.

'Okay,' he mumbles, burrowing his face into her side. She runs her hands from his collarbone to the curve of his shoulder, running over the memories in her head: the first kiss and what she thought would be the last kiss. Those memories had once been painful, but now they're special, almost. Beautiful, painful reminders of the scars their love has healed so well from.

_Oh, I believe in yesterday. _

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**__Well, there you go. The end of Yesterday. If you're confused about the time gap, it's because this story, Yesterday, is the prequel to my other story, Something, which I wrote first. That story covers the time gap. If you like this, check that out, because it's George/Angie too. :) **

**Just wanted to say, thanks to all of you who read this story, and even more to those who reviewed, especially 023Faust, The Crazy Violist, and TheBeatlesMopTops. :) **

**Stay tuned for more Beatles stories, because this is just the tip of the dungheap of creative muck waiting to be written in my head! -Jen. **


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